Denial & Consequences - Day One

Day One

The first edge happened around 7:40 that morning, on a hay bale in the barn, opposite our pig sty.  As far as it goes, I’ve had my pants off in both better and worse places, and let me be honest - I’d far rather have my blue jeans and panties off in the barn than in a men’s restroom someplace.  I’m also the kind of girl who likes to take it off.  My boots and socks were about fifteen feet away, my blue jeans were around ten, and my panties were barely within reach. I was completely naked from the waist down as I laid back on the old blanket I’d thrown over the hay.  It was a decent bed, which made reaching down between my spread legs that much easier.  In my other hand I held my phone, the little teaser story from Master M bright on the screen.

I slowly pulled the double dildo out, feeling the thick rubber probes slide from their twinned holes.  I’m not a fan of things in my ass, so it wasn’t like I was feeling this urge to masturbate much.  Sure I was horny.  Who wouldn’t be? I hadn’t cum in, oh… twelve hours or so?  The reality was that I’d been tightly stuffed with the double dildo, front and back, since five that morning, with orders not to cum.  That in itself wasn’t so bad, but I’d also been told to edge three times during the day.  Edges are all about sexual frustration. You get yourself all worked up, right to the edge of… well… climax.  Then you stop.  Cold.  Don’t step off the edge or the punishment you earn could be more than you can bear.  That’s what I was told.  The name of the game was denial.  

Denial.  It’s not just a river in Egypt you know.  And if it were just a river in Egypt, my knees would be as wet as my slit.  Master M had made it clear that he wanted me driven mad with denial, days of it.  And the little story I was supposed to read while edging?  Oh that was just a way for him to needle me, to stimulate my imagination, all with the intent of pushing me that much closer to falling off the sexual wagon as it were.  Julie, the diabolical and sadistic brunette who I called Mistress was salivating at the thought that I’d mess up, explode in a burst of wetness and moans, leaving her free to inflict some rather serious punishments upon my person.  All of that meant that I was toeing a number of fine lines; the edge of a cliff as it were, between denial and release, between Master M’s desire to drive me bonkers with need, and Julie’s want to have me bound open, ready for the whip, or God only knows what other implements of sexual torture she had waiting.

With the double dildo in my right hand I drew it out slowly then pushed it back in.  My eyes went to the screen of the phone and began reading, a sentence per thrust.  The story was good enough.  Not very long though. But good nonetheless.  It was about a cute little submissive called “Snowflake” who was stretched tightly, naked and vulnerable, between two palm trees, the rushing sea and morning sky before her.  She’d been there all night.  Her mistress approaches stripping a palm frond of it’s green, leaving just the vein.

And the snowflake is whipped.  

It’s a razor, leaving long, shallow cuts all over her rump, then breasts, then sex.  And while all this was going on, pictured vividly in my fertile imagination, I was slowly, deeply, thoroughly driving that double dildo in and out of my own soaked slit and ass, imagining what it might be like to be there, held taught like that, cut over and over, my own skin treated to the light, icelike marks that whip would leave.  One of my friends, another sub with the Society of the Golden Rose, is covered with those kind of marks.  Her former mistress, a woman named Danielle, had a flogger with little bits of metal woven into the strands. According to Alissa, it frequently left her bleeding, even after light strokes.  Kari and I stole it when we got Alissa out of Danielle’s place and it was locked up tight and I think Kari might have even thrown it away.  But I have to admit a certain sick fascination. Just what would that really feel like?

The story ended. It just wasn’t long enough and even though I felt the urge to cum, I wasn’t quite there.  I pumped more until I felt the blossom of orgasm, but a single hard thrust, ramming the double dildo in, then going for my panties and jeans to keep the thick rubbed probes buried deep and tight, was enough to stimmy the urge.  I put on my socks and boots and stood, feeling the twin phalli move within me.

With a deep breath I tried not to think about what I was doing.  There was a pressure now that hadn’t been there before, a sort of simmering beneath the surface. Next edge?  Around noon…

If you missed the rest of Breanne Erickson's amazing tale "Denial and Consequences" don't fret! It will soon be available as a stand alone novel along with the unpublished tale "Target!"  Keep an eye on the blog for it's upcoming release!

The Art of Fellows

So if you are following Michael Alexander Stories on tumblr, or Michael's "Riding the Wooden Horse" tumblr, or even Michael's "Cream of Venus", then you should probably check out F.Fellows work at "The Art of Fellows."  It's definitely worth a look! I love the smile on the horse.

Visit "The Art of Fellows"

We Love Fans

We love our fans and you have to admit this young lady expresses it rather well.  To check out her tumblr blog click here.  It's worth it!

Are you a fan?

John's Party - Part One

I was on my knees.

Admittedly, that’s not really a surprise for anyone is it?  I mean, realistically I spend a good deal of time in that position.  I’m a submissive with a penchant for doing crazy, mind-blowing (and cock-blowing) things.  Hell, on any given day, if I say “I’m on my knees,” there’s a damn good chance there is cock inside me too, on any one of a variety of damp, dark places.  Either that or a sex toy, buzzing away like mad, making me so desperate and wet that all I can think of doing is screwing someone, anyone. It’s almost a law of nature.  “Breanne is on her knees, getting fucked.”  I wonder if I’d been around, and fallen on him like that apple, if Newton would have been up to the task of creating a “law of Breanne?”

So like I said, I was on my knees.  And yes, I had a stiff, hard cock inside me.  I was kneeling on the bed, straddling a gray haired gentlemen in his mid-fifties, whose bright blue eyes stared up at me even as his hands kneaded my bare breasts urgently.  I was bouncing, enjoying the sensation of his rigid member slipping up and down through my loins, watching his own face darken as my nubile body did its thing.

It was late in the afternoon, almost five o’clock and I’d been at John’s house on that first day of February since almost lunch time.  For the first few hours I’d helped him clean the house, as well as prep the munchies we’d planned for the party.  It had been fun actually, despite the fact that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off me. Part of that was because I’d stripped naked the moment I got in the door, but also because I’d been particularly naughty.  I’d teased him with touches and little ass wiggles the entire time.  And not to make you jealous or anything, but this was the second screwing he’d give me.  The first had been in the living room right after I finished vacuuming.  Do you know what it’s like doing it doggie style while half bent over a sofa?

I do!

But now, as I rode him gently on the bed, I knew everything was ready.  Snacks were prepared, lined up. Beer was cold in the fridge.  We had every soda type known to mankind. There were pretzels, chips, dip, little smokies, peanuts, sliders, candy, wings… everything.  We’d maneuvered the living room furniture around so that besides John’s sofa, there were now also three large recliners available.  The coffee table was loaded with goodies. As far as parties go, this one had plenty of food and drink.

And I was ready as well.  As I bounced up and down I glanced over to the bureau where my costume for the evening was waiting.

“Oh God! Breanne! I think I’m going to cum!” John groaned, his fingers pinching my nipple.  “I can’t hold back any more!”

I laughed, the light, silvery music coming from my throat. “Then cum!” I said wickedly, grinding my hips. His body responded immediately and I worked to get his cock to spurt a second time.

“But…” he gasped, panting. “You haven’t popped yet.  Not once,” he protested.

My smile warmed.  Awww… how sweet.  “John,” I whispered, bending down to touch my lips to his ear. “That doesn’t matter.  If I’m horny for the rest of the evening, isn’t that a good thing? Use me. Satisfy yourself with me,” I said. “Hurt me. That’s what I’m here for.”

And he did. I groaned as he twisted my nipples, the small gold padlock and piercing that hung from my right breast nothing but a cruel dial for his fingertips.  I threw my head back and let out a whimper that morphed into a pain ridden whine and that was all he needed.  I felt him, already stiff inside me, become granite.  Then his shaft began to pulse, throbbing between the soft sides of my slit until I knew he was exploding.  White cream burst forth, caught in the condom’s bubble, and then he groaned in relief, pulling me down by my breasts until I was pressed to his chest, still rolling my hips, my body, if not my mind, looking for satisfaction.

Don’t get me wrong. I would have loved to explode.  I always do.  But that’s not my purpose.  See, I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut and that means that generally, at least when it comes to sex, my needs are a distant second to every single person who happens to be in the room.  Me?  I’m a toy, a tool.  And if my suffering, whether by denial or torment, is what someone requires, then I’m going to provide it.  That’s not abusive either.  That’s what I like.  It’s what makes me even more turned on, to be that tool.  And honestly? I love making men, and yes - even women - cum from using me. 

Eventually John let me go and I rolled off him, glancing at the clock.  With a laugh I touched his shoulder and nodded at the time.

“I know. I know, they’ll be arriving soon,” he muttered and then stood.  We still had thirty minutes before game time, but all of his guests would be showing up in the next half hour.  We didn’t have that much time. 

I padded over to the bureau and picked up the mess of white and black cloth.  I’d borrowed one of Madeline’s outfits, another “little French maid” getup that I had thought appropriate for hosting John’s Super Bowl party.  He’d agreed immediately when I’d described the outfit and I went about putting it on.  There wasn’t much too it.  The white blouse was nothing more than a half shirt that covered one’s breasts, with a disturbingly low collar and an off the shoulder cut.  The white underskirt was more of a tutu, which was actually okay, since I had a pair of black, lace panties, also disturbingly transparent, that I’d known would contrast well with the uniform.  Lastly came the dress, which went over both the tutu thingy and my bared midriff.  This actually did a better job of covering me up, though the underskirt kept the dress from covering my bottom or sex.  The apron was sewed straight to the dress.

I know.  Impressive, right?  But I said it was a costume. Sheesh.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and started to put on my shoes. John had opted for bare legs instead of stockings, all because he really liked the stripper heels I’d brought.  Crystal clear with a dangerous arch and five inch heels on top of a four inch lift, my stripper heels shouted “whore” a whole lot better than a sign. At least I wore them well, my exposed toes, arch, and ankles attractive enough.  Five minutes later I walked into the bathroom, darkened my makeup - especially the eyeliner (except no lipstick. Lipstick in sexual settings sucks,) cleaned up just a little more, and then headed out into the rest of the house.

The rest of Breanne's amazing tale is no longer available here on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You CAN find out what happens though, by reading Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 11," now available from Amazon.com!

A New Body Found Buzzing Softly in the Skeleton Closet

There is a closet, somewhere deep, where the stories that Breanne and I don't care to acknowledge, hide from the light of day.  They're the product of depraved minds, sick and twisted. Hopefully they are all fiction. We pray they're all fiction.  And yet, sometimes, I wonder...

Why am I telling you this?  We added another skeleton, buzzing softly, to the closet. Or more accurately, I had it dumped on my doorstep earlier today. I won't tell you who wrote it, but I will say that it is a fitting anniversary present from someone who will have been writing for this blog since January 15th, 2010. 

If you celebrate nympho humiliation pain slut mania as much as I do, then perhaps you might want to open that closet door and examine the body we just shoved in there. 

And then again, maybe you won't.  But either way, it's erotic as hell. Check the codes to see if it's appropriate for your tastes. - MA

New Beginnings - Part One of Two

Her eyes were hard, cold, and very stern, her mouth puckered into a wry sort of smile that made it absolutely clear she knew what she was doing.  There was a wicked mischievousness there, along with a healthy dose of plain old cruelty that I’d come to know very well over the last few years.  The tresses of her chocolate colored hair, lustrous and shoulder length, framed her oval shaped and decidedly cute face and her slightly upturned nose just made the whole thing seem more ridiculous.  How could someone who looked so sweet and adorable be so mean?

I swallowed hard and glanced around.  We were sitting in the middle of a coffee shop, one of the new perks of Julie’s new job.  Gone were the days of managing a small time junk jewelry store in a crowded mall.  Now she was working for a big corporation, handling the day to day needs of an entire department, with an actual hour long lunch break.  It had been Isobel’s doing of course, along with my former mistress, but still close friend, Kari Anders.  Now Julie was already driving a nicer car and I’d been informed that in February I’d be helping her pack up her apartment.  Even her attire had changed, and that’s saying something since she’d really begun to think “classy” a year ago.  I don’t know how much Julie was making, but she sure as hell wasn’t shopping Wal-Mart any more.

It had only been five days since the New Year’s Eve Party hosted by the Society of the Golden Rose and already things were in a turmoil.  I don’t think I’ve ever received so many fan letters ever, not even when I’d posted the original manuscript of my first initiation into the Society.  And let me tell you - there had been some pretty upset people back then.  I’d been busy writing of course, but Julie had already met with me, and taken me out, and I’d undergone some changes.  Normally for a meeting like this I’d have been dressed in a micro-skirt and a halter top, the better to put me on display and humiliate me.  Since it was in the mid-forties out, with me dressed in an open denim duster and the above mentioned attire would have been unusual enough to attract the eye, presuming the open-toed sandal style high heels or fire-engine red hair hadn’t done it.

But the fire-engine red hair was gone.  Julie had made it clear that while she liked the crimson locks around my face, she wanted it toned down, a little more natural and so she’d spent close to two hundred dollars to fix it the way she wanted.  Now my hair was shoulder length, like hers, easier to maintain and handle, and while I’d still be easily identified as a redhead, people would be wondering if the drapes matched rug, rather than what can of Sherwin-Williams paint I’d dipped my head in.  To be honest, I thought it rather refreshing.

I’d also liked the new wardrobe Julie had started for me.  She’d come over and gone through my entire collection of clothes. All of it. From work clothes to the stuff Kari had bought me over the years.  It had taken four hours, and I think I tried on every article of clothing I owned, but she’d tossed most of the threadbare halter tops I’d been given by Kari in college, along with a few of the skirts that no longer fit me.  To be honest, I almost felt bad that she’d thrown away that one pair of “skorts” Kari had given me in high school. Okay, sure. I couldn’t fit in them at all anymore, at least not without them showing everything, but they had sentimental value.

Julie had also taken me shopping and I was pleased, though still a bit embarrassed.  Now I had a collection of skirts that came down almost too my knee, but had dangerous slits.  In fact, I was wearing an ankle length, multi-colored skirt that did a very nice job of keeping my legs warm, provided I wasn’t walking.  There was a slit up both sides that allowed my entire leg to literally step out of the skirt with each swing of the leg. It was erotic as hell, looked fantastic, but didn’t expose too much.  Of course the slit went to the waistband and I wasn’t able to wear panties with the skirt, not if I wanted it to look decent.  

My blouse was also daring, but much more respectable than some of the clothing I’ve been told to wear over the years.  It was a black sweater, off the shoulder sort of thing designed to emphasize my breasts, but also sporting this curve that exposed my midriff.  It wasn’t bad, and to be honest it was a lot better than some of the other things I’ve been given over the years.  Still, Julie’s choices were still nothing I’d buy myself, ever.  I’m dreading the day I have to wear the black gauze shirt that is completely see through except for the two “pockets” sewn into the front, which cover up my breasts and nothing else. 

My lower lip trembled and I swallowed.  Tense would be an apt word to use describing me.  Every muscle was taut and I my breathing was shallow and erratic.  We sat there at the coffee table, and I looked back up at her face.  Her smile was fixed, almost wooden, and there was this slightly disturbing light in her eyes, as if she weren’t quite sane.  She moved her hand and set it down near the remote.

The rest of Breanne's amazing tale is no longer available here on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You CAN find out what happens though, by reading Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 11," now available from Amazon.com!

Afterdark Online Reviews MA's Sigma Epislon Chi: The Intern

Ray Sostre over at Afterdark Online just finished "Sigma Epsilon Chi: The Intern" and he had a couple of nice things to say about it.  Things like "Definitely a Platinum Read worth keeping in your tablet (5 Stars)!" and "There’s nothing left out as far what sex scene you want to read; it’s got it all! Five Flames. You might want a bottle of water afterwards."

He goes into a lot more detail of course, but I'll let you read that for yourself.  Afterdark Online is worth a visit regardless - one of the best sources for erotica of all genres.  You'll see works by some of the hottest names in erotica, including Felicity Brandon, Scarlett Flame, Amanda Dick and others.  Ray himself is a pretty darn good author as well!  The nice thing about Afterdark Online is that they do author interviews, have free samples and giveaways, and do a great job keeping their readers informed on the best stuff out there.

So do yourself a favor.  Check out Afterdark Online!

Of course you might also think about checking out Michael Alexander's "Sigma Epsilon Chi: The Intern" or the first book, "Sigma Epsilon Chi"!

The New Year - Part One

In general, I’m not a fur coat sort of girl.  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a PETA activist or anything, even though PETA activists spend almost as much time naked as I do.  But my distaste stems from something more mundane.  I’m a South Texas farm girl. I wear blue jeans and boots and tee shirts.  And the few times I’ve been made to put on a fur coat has always made me feel uncomfortable, like I was pretending to be something I’m not.  I can go for costumes, but a fur coat?  That’s not a costume. It’s a statement.  And yet, I was grateful for the one I was wearing. It was cold and to be honest, I wished the coat was longer, since my legs and feet were freezing.  My bare toes peeked out of a pair of sandal style shoes with four inch tall heels.  I swear, Kari’s obsession with my feet being as bare and arched as possible will be the death of me.  Maybe this is why I caught pneumonia last year…

The dress I was wearing, if you could call it that, was of absolutely no help.  Made of some elastic, half gauze half lyrca type material, it lacked any insulating attributes whatsoever.  Worse, someone named Kari had taken an Exacto knife to various parts of the dress, ventilating it from collar to hem, as well as the small of my back downward.  I’d been shocked when I first put it on and found my boobs hanging out well in front of my attire.  I looked like a fish caught in a net, or a trussed up sausage.  But maybe that was the idea. After all, we were going to a party; a rather special, New Year’s Eve party and I had to look the part.

I was accessorized too though.  The bling is just as important right?  But most women would have found the spangles I wore to be a little much, even demeaning.  Instead of a fancy necklace that drew the eye to the graceful lines of my neck, or maybe even my impressive cleavage, I wore a black leather collar studded with four steel loops.  It was buckled tightly around my throat so that it resembled a choker.  Instead of silver bracelets, both of my wrists were bound in bondage cuffs, the steel buckles and additional metal hoops ringing with the key chain type clasps that had been attached.  I was told that the matching cuffs on my ankles were there purely for aesthetic value, but I’m not an idiot.  They were functional and bore matching clips that I could feel dangling down against my heels.   

Unlike the monthly meetings of the Society of the Golden Rose, an upscale lesbian BDSM club catering to the ultra-rich and their deviant minded submissives, this party was something special.  It was a chance for the divas to glitter and shine, to get dressed up in all their finery. To really put on a show.  And even though I was well aware that I, as well as my fellow submissives were the show, I couldn’t really feel unhappy about the situation.  Everyone would be there.  

Kari was a bit quiet during the whole “getting ready” process.  She’d selected my dress, done my make-up and hair, and then assisted me into my wardrobe.  Finally we were ready and I’d slipped on the fur coat she’d bought me a year and a half ago and we were ready.  The cold winter air had attacked my lower half so I was grateful Kari had the heater cranked all the way up.  We drove north to Tomball and about forty-five minutes after leaving Kari’s condominium, we pulled up in front of a well-lit home.

Home?  Mansion would be a better way to describe it.  At least from my perspective.  It was four times bigger than my family’s farm house, which isn’t exactly modest.  But this place?  Wow.  It was a Victorian style with a healthy mix of New England.  Everything was painted white or this light cream, with darker grays for the eaves and shutters.  The landscaping was trimmed back for winter, but there were still leaves on the boxwoods and the jasmine still crept along the beds.  There were about a dozen cars parked along the road and on the driveway.  Kari pulled up and we got out.  I hurried toward the door as Kari followed more sedately.  

“Are you okay?” I asked, my breath steaming in the air.  Cold air was wafting up under the coat and since I wasn’t wearing any panties, and the dress provided zero assistance in resisting the chill, my moist and bare petals were getting a bit frigid.

Kari smiled at me and nodded, choosing not to say anything.  I thought it damned peculiar and it made me stop right there on the sidewalk leading to the front door.

“Kari?”

The blond vixen in front of me turned and looked back.  She was wearing a long black coat which covered up a glittering red dress that made her look like a runway model.  Kari is thin and tall and her straight locks hung down well past her shoulders.  There was this look in her eyes that made me quiver, all the way down to my toes.  I’d met her in sixth grade, gone through puberty with her, discovered sex, became her submissive, allowed her to dye my mousy brown hair fire-engine red, and given my body to her so many times I’d lost count. We went to the same college, lived together, eaten together, suffered together.  

“Breanne,” she said softly, reaching out and putting her hand on my arm. “I’m fine. Really.”

I gave her a suspicious look but then shrugged.  If she didn’t want to tell me, then she didn’t have to.  But I’d known her for most of my life.  I knew something wasn’t right.  

We climbed the steps of the front porch.  There was a swinging bench and the windows were curtained with a fine gauze that gave a hint of movement inside but concealed everything.  Kari rang the bell and a moment later the door opened.

By a little French maid.

“Good evening, Mistress Kari,” Madeline said, doing this cute little curtsey.  Her eyes flashed to me and I grinned back.  Madeline was wearing her maid’s uniform, which to be honest, was more suited for a porn shoot than actual chores.  The skirt was just a pair of ruffles, white under black and didn’t cover anything lower than her hips.  Her bare slit was wet and just as obviously stuffed with something motorized because I could see a bright pink wire emerging from between the flared petals of Madeline’s sex.  The shirt she wore seemed to be missing some key parts, like a front.  It buttoned up fine, just under her breasts, sported a gaping hole for Madeline’s bosom, and then buttoned up to the neck.  She wore a collar like mine and there was one other little item we shared.  On her right nipple there was a piercing; a gold hoop which also sported a charm sized padlock.  There was a black enameled rose on the lock; the sigil of the Society.

“Can I take your coats?” she asked graciously as the door was shut behind us.  Kari shrugged out of her coat first.  I would have been loath to remove my own, if I hadn’t already felt the blessed heat wafting over me.  I slid out of the furs and watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as Madeline’s eyes saw my dress.  I could tell she wanted to say something, but instead she just gave  me a wink and took my coat, laying it over Kari’s.

“Please enjoy the festivities,” she said.  

I’d never been to Isobel’s house before but the first thing I noticed was that it looked like a Pottery Barn store had exploded everywhere.  The place reeked of it.  Don’t get me wrong. I like Pottery Barn. It has nice furniture and accessories.  But Isobel’s mansion was decorated in that singular style throughout.  I could see Kari wrinkling her nose.  I couldn’t help but agree.  Too many beiges, creams, and sage.  It needed color.  On the flip side, it would always be easy to find Kari.  She was the only one wearing bright red.  

There was a study on the left, lined with book shelves with a beautiful desk. A formal dining room was on the right.  Both were occupied by a number of women, all of whom I knew intimately.  And when I say intimately, I mean just that.  One of the perks of the Society is variety. I’d had sexual relations with everyone at one point or another, and while some of the mistresses weren’t my favorite to spend time with, there was no one I didn’t really like.  

The first thing I noticed was that Madeline and I weren’t the only ones forced to strut our stuff.  Every submissive was wearing something revealing.  Georgia Tai was dressed in what appeared to be a sari, but transparent.  Underneath the material her skin had been decorated with gold colored henna designs which swirled from one shoulder, down across her breasts, to turn and swing past her navel, crossing a hip, dancing back toward her bare sex, and then down her right leg to her ankle.  Like Madeline and I, her right nipple was pierced and you could see the padlock.  Rather than bondage cuffs, she wore bracelets on ankle and wrist, each spangled and ringing lightly with every step.

Wendy was there too, wearing a short, pink number with a plunging neck line.  Disturbingly, her bondage cuffs matched the color of her dress. Kaitlin wore a white, floor length gown that would have almost been appropriate for a wedding, except that the front was a flowing mesh gauze material that left her prurient parts completely exposed.  Everywhere there was a flash of gold and symbol of the Society.

The rest of Breanne's amazing tale is no longer available here on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You CAN find out what happens though, by reading Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 11," now available from Amazon.com!