Tales 12

Tales 11

Tales Vol.9

Deep Waters

Tales NHSP 8

Challenge of Love

Tales Vol. 1

Coming of Age

In The Dark II

Breanne's Three - Chicago BDSM

The Society of the Golden Rose

The Silver Locke

Michael Alexander Stories

A Painful Anniversary

A Painful Anniversary

Part One

Part Two

Nothing motivates like pain.  It's a feral beast, an animal that tears into you, spurring action. It makes you move, to seek relief, and it does so easily, without thought.  Of course, pain can also do other things, especially to someone like me, if it's applied correctly, thoughtfully, deliberately, with intent to motivate certain behaviors.  It can make me do crazy things, in wild places, along with making me very very wet.   But what can I say?  I'm a nympho humiliation pain slut.

My name is Breanne Erickson and if you don't know me already, well that's easy enough to fix.  I'm five foot four and a quarter, which is just tall enough to reach the bottom shelf on kitchen cabinets, and not high enough to reach the shelf we keep the coffee mugs on.  It's sort of pathetic.  I'm termed "petite" in polite clothing circles, which means it's hard to find jeans that fit.  It also doesn't help that I weigh about a hundred and seventeen pounds when dripping wet and naked.  That can go up of course, depending on whatever dildo I've got rammed up inside me.  I'm a bit busty, moving into the upper C range, which makes me look just a tad bit top heavy. I was born a mousy brunette, which is to say that I'm on the blond side of brown and in my natural state makes me look like a bucket of overgrown field mice.  I've taken steps and I've always felt that red hair, fire engine red hair, is the way to go when it comes to increasing the amount of attraction I exert on other people.  I'm bi-sexual.  Why only sample half the food at a buffet, right?  I don't have any tattoos, but I technically have three piercings: both ears and a golden hoop through my right nipple.  That hoop is a long story in and of it self.

Did I get your attention when I said I was a nympho humiliation pain slut?  I'm pretty sure I did.  That normally gets everyone's attention.  I've been one ever since I was a junior in high school, even though I didn’t technically call myself a “NHPS” back then.  My best friend Kari invited me over to watch some of her dad's BDSM video collection.  She had found his bucket of tapes in her parent's closet after her mom and dad separated and she was cleaning.  Over the summer we must have watched every single tape, blankets covering our bodies as we quietly masturbated.  Two weeks before school started she held out several of our favorite videos and asked me to choose.  Which one should we act out?  Our roles were destined from the beginning.  I identified with the girls being tortured in the videos.  Kari identified with the dommes who did the torturing.  I ended up tied spread-eagled to the coffee table while fucked with a cucumber, clamped with clothespins, and lightly whipped until I must have cum three or four times.  Then Kari released me and I did what the girl in the video did.  Kari came next and it started a relationship that has continued in various forms to this day.

But being a nympho humiliation pain slut isn't just about having a mistress, or a master, or even a golden hoop through your nipple.  It's a lifestyle, a choice, and a curse.  And there are rules too.  You should probably learn them, even if you aren't a nympho humiliation pain slut too.  You might bump into me someday and it's a good idea to know how to handle me, just in case.  For example, NHPS Rule #1 states quite clearly that I am to keep myself stuffed with either cock or a sex toy, at all times, in order to keep myself wet and ready for immediate sexual use.  Cool rule, huh?  I have a whole toybox full of crap that I change out daily, usually at Kari's whim, to keep myself stimulated and ready.  I try not to wear the same thing two days in a row.  I'm afraid I might get used to it, which defeats the purpose of being sexually tormented 24/7, doesn't it?  There are other rules of course, but you can look those up yourself.  Trust me. Just google them.

If you have heard of me, that's cool.  I'm popular enough to get fan mail, which is weird, and I've actually gotten marriage proposals from various guys (and one girl) who thought I'd be the perfect partner, despite having never met me in the flesh, based only upon the sex blog I write for.  That's kind of weird, isn't it?  I mean sure, I can cook, clean, play piano, and do it all naked while stuffed with something buzzing, while planning an "abuse Breanne" party for you and your friends, but still... marriage?  It seems... abrupt.  So sure, you might know me from the blog.  Or maybe you've read one of my books, which means you already know all of this already.  Yes.  Books.  I've written three of them and there are two more coming this spring, so eat your heart out.  But I'm not here to plug my books, which would be just totally wrong.

No,  I'm going to tell you about my anniversary assignment.  Anniversary you ask?  Absolutely.  Two years on January 15th, writing for a particular BDSM Blog.  What's an assignment you might ask?  Well over the last two years, a wide variety of doms and dommes have made some suggestions, just little tasks of this and that for me to accomplish.  If you've read "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut," you know what I'm talking about.   If you haven't then you should know it usually starts out with an email.  This one came from Master Brandon, one of my online doms who has a penchant for creating assignments that not just tantalize, but hurt like hell too.

Breanne, Happy Anniversary!  The last two years have been a lot of fun.  Remember that knotted rope walk I made you do?  Twice?  After this you're going to wish that I'd made you do it a third time to celebrate your anniversary.  This one is going to hurt a lot more, but I promise that you'll cum too.  What do you need to do?  Well it's simple.  First off you'll need...

I remember those two rope walks.  Terrible torment.  But assignments are always a little exciting for me.  For someone who absolutely hates getting publicly humiliated, but gets turned on when it happens, or who doesn't like getting hurt, unless it's done in a sexually explicit way, an assignment is usually this test of character, of strength, of will power, and of course my libido.  And there I was, about to start my anniversary assignment.  After my morning chores I grabbed the items specified in Master Brandon’s email, along with my denim duster, and climbed into my Ford F-150 pickup truck.  Don’t give me a hard time about driving a truck.  Technically it belongs to my dad. 

The ben wa balls I had stuffed into myself at five in the morning rolled smoothly inside me, keeping me moist and in a state of sexual flux. As instructed,  I hadn't cum all morning and for someone who if left to her own devices will masturbate at least two or three times a day, the unceasing sexual stimulation without release was more than enough to set me up. A few moments later I pulled over on the side of the road.  The farm to market roadway that passed just south of my parent's farm was nothing more than a long strip of asphalt (and we were lucky to have that!) which didn’t even sport a center line.  I climbed out of the cab and moved to the front grill in a ritual that spanned all the way back two years.  In one of my very first assignments, Mistress Ellen had devised a way to get me attired appropriately, with maximum opportunity for humiliation, yet with minimized risk.  Her concept was so brilliant, every single one of my other online doms and dommes adopted it, even Kari, who takes a lot of pleasure sitting behind the wheel, watching as I strip at the front of the car.

A brisk fifty degree wind blew across the dried grasses that lined the edges of the road and I shivered as I removed my heavy denim duster.  Even dressed in the thick, button down, long sleeve shirt and blue jeans, I felt the cutting touch of the icy wind and my fingers rushed to hurry, not wanting to remain exposed for longer than I needed to be.  I knew it was going to get worse before it got better too.  I started unbuttoning my shirt, working my way down, turning my back to the cold wind.  As I tugged the shirt tails out of my jeans I felt the goose bumps rising on my arms.  I quivered and then pulled the shirt completely off.  Underneath I was wearing a simple bra, white lace and elastic and I fumbled for a moment before my fingers found the small clasp behind my back and freed it.  The bra fell loose and instantly my nipples puckered into hard little bumps.  My right nipple ached just a tad bit more thanks to the solid gold piercing that decorated the pink nub.  From the hoop dangled a small padlock, a tiny charm decorated with the black enameled outline of a rose.  It swung violently as I started shivering.

I looked down the expanse of bare road.  Not a truck or car in sight and I knew it was likely to remain that way.  There wasn't much down past my parent’s farm and traffic was sparse.  I could have sunbathed naked for an hour and been relatively sure no one would pass me.  Of course, it has happened before.  You can't keep rolling the dice and expect that certain number to never come up.  But the few times I've been spotted, or taken advantage of, have been few and far between.  But hey, those are other stories and you can read them later... or maybe you've already read them, which would be sweet!

I struggled with my belt buckle for a moment before managing to get my jeans open.  The zipper dropped and then I was pushing, forcing the heavy denim down my bare legs.  The panties I was wearing weren't anything special; simple bikini cut cotton, white in color.  It wasn't like I was expecting to be on display in just my undies.  Besides, I can't afford a shitload of Victoria's Secret stuff (though I admit I'd like some if anyone wants to send me some stuff!  I’m a size 6 and 36c!) As I struggled to kick off my boots and get out of my jeans, the freezing air blasted at my naked body and practically chilled me to the bone.  Finally I managed the jeans, putting one sock clad foot down in the gravel.  The other boot went easier and then my pants crumpled on the ground.  I picked them up, shaking like a leaf, and quickly folded them.  I hurried, grabbing my panties and pushing them down as well.  Bare ass naked, I grabbed my duster and wrapped it around myself, only barely able to keep from falling over.  I closed the heavy blue denim and then collected my clothing and boots, only to retreat to the comfortable warmth of the truck cab.  I started the engine and let the hot air blast, heating me until I was finally able to hold the wheel without having tremors.  The windows steamed up and I sat back in sweet bliss as scorching air blasted out of the vents and warmed me.  I reached down, pulled off my socks, and carefully put on my stripper shoes, a set of crystal clear rubber and plastic soles with eight inch heels.  They were the kind of shoes that said in a loud clear voice "the girl wearing these shoes is a slut.  Please watch her carefully because she might do something slutty."  And it doesn't matter what else she is wearing, trust me.  I took a deep breath, put the truck in gear, and headed north.

It was just before ten o'clock in the morning when I pulled up at the mall.  I parked as close to the front door as I could.  It wasn't part of the requirements, but I suspected that any shortening of the distance I needed to walk would be a benefit.  As soon as I stopped the truck, I reached over to my small bag and pulled out the three items I needed immediately.  Then I opened my duster, trying to keep as much of myself concealed as possible.  There weren’t a lot of passersby, but I didn’t want to put on a show to early in the morning, or attract the attention of the security staff.  Been there.  Done that. Gingerly I reached down between my legs and found the small piece of twine that led to the pair of ben wa balls that had been rolling around inside me all morning.  I tugged them loose, groaning as they popped out from between my labia, coated in the tangy sweet musk of my own lubrication.  With a slight smile, I licked the ben wa balls clean and then dropped them in the bag, exchanging them for a set of triple vibroballs, a new toy I received at Christmas.  Instead of two bullets, bouncing, shaking, and vibrating inside me, I would now have three, each as big as the ones on the regular set of vibroballs.  I slipped them in one at a time, relishing the sensation of being stuffed to the brim.  I turned them on a moment later, setting the dial to maximum.  My pussy convulsed violently around the plastic sex objects and I knew I didn't have long before I came in glorious release.

But while triple vibroballs certainly go a long way to encouraging sexual behavior, they aren't exactly painful.  In fact, on the stimulation scale, they're much more potent than my old vibroballs, which only had two bullets.  Now I had three and trust me, the extra object made a major difference.  My hips were already thrusting in and out, virtually fucking the triple vibroballs while I pulled loose the next item.  I braced myself.  I knew this would be painful.  I pulled my duster apart, making sure the tips of my breasts were exposed.  Both were light pink, a perfect contrast to the white of my skin.  Carefully I brought up the alligator clamps, two sharp metal toothed monstrosities that hurt like the dickens and were connected to each other by a single steel chain.  One clamp bit into my left nipple like I was a steak dinner, waiting for consumption, while the other snapped close behind the piercing and padlock on my right nipple.  I felt a tug, a pull, as gravity did its thing with the connecting chain and I groaned.  Thank god I was sitting down!  The teeth dug into both nipples sending shards of exquisite pain lancing through my breasts.  That pain only barely registered in my brain, since it combined with the pulsing rhythm of the triple vibroballs stimulating my pussy.  I almost came right then.  As I struggled to come to grips with the incredible sensation, my fingers found the next item I had been instructed to bring and place upon my person.  It was another metal toothed clamp, another alligator clamp in fact, yet this one was twice the size of the ones currently chewing on my nipples. Tied to one end of the clamp was a soft light string which ended at a simple key ring hoop.  I took hold of the clamp and spread my legs.  Trembling, knowing this would hurt much much more than the splinters of pain piercing both nipples, I readied myself as I positioned the jumbo alligator clamp over my clitoris.  I rubbed my clit with the closed tip, prepping my flesh for the burst of agony.  I pinched the clamp open, set it in place, and then allowed the teeth to close, sinking into my tender soft clitoris.

I'm not sure I can describe the blaze of burning sensation that was the pain of my torment.  It burst up through me as if I had been scorched alive, my clit throbbed in agony and my pussy locked down on the three buzzing beads inside me and trembled.  It mixed together in one throbbing, pulsing heat and I let out a moan that would have been heard from one side of the mall to the other had I been inside.  Struggling not to scream or cum, I threaded the string up past my belly button and then between the chain connecting my nipples.  I draped the rope over the nipple clamps chain and then prepared myself.  Yes.  It was about to get worse.  I knew it.  I tugged one of the small two ounce fishing weights from my duster pocket, the tiny hook ready and waiting.  Trembling, on the very edge of orgasmic release, I attached the weight to the ring and let go.

Hopefully you understand the nature of my torment.  Basically, the weight applied pressure to both nipples and my clit, tugging on me painfully.  It hurt.  I shook, and not from cold this time.  But my preparations were complete.  I stuffed the triple vibroballs remote into my duster pocket along with the three other weights, and popped open the door.  A blast of chilled wind struck me and the full length of bared flesh.  I hurriedly closed my duster, even while ignoring the shards of pain that exploded through me from my clit and nipples.  Quickly, I buttoned all five buttons of the duster, closing myself off from the cold, but also concealing my naked body and the hellish torture I was enduring.  I locked the truck and stuck the keys in the other pocket, feeling the nine inch Husky dildo which I had been ordered to bring along.  There was also a tiny bottle in that pocket, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

I guess I should also take a moment to explain a few things about my alligator clamps.  If you happen to be a nympho humiliation pain slut too, don’t run up to your local hardware store, buy a set of alligator clamps, and just go attaching them to your body.  First of all pressure is the important thing to consider whenever you use clamps.  Take for example, your average wooden clothespin.  Those have about four to six pounds of pressure between the “teeth” of the peg.  Alligator clamps, when bought in their natural state, are quite a bit higher.  That means you have to modify them.  Now don’t ask me how.  I had my friend Mike, the hardware store manager do that in exchange for… uh..  well… never mind.  But my point is that I’ve got my alligator clamps set to around three to four pounds.  I also dulled the teeth enough so that they wouldn’t break skin.  Now, you have to understand these things still HURT.  But come one, the idea isn’t to be gushing BLOOD now is it?

I tried to hurry, but as anyone who has been cruelly bound like I was, you know that walking fast when your clit and nipples feel like they're being torn from your body is not something that motivates you to move fast.  It also didn't help that I had one of the most powerful orgasms I've ever experienced when I was still about twenty feet from the door of the Outdoor Store.  I ended up drifting to the side of the entrance, gasping, thankful no one was out there to see me, because my hips were doing this plainly erotic dance as I struggled not to fall down.  The triple vibroballs seemed to be the pushing factor and even after I came they continued buzzing inside me, allowing me to come down from my climax only so far before turning me right around again and pushing me back up.  For a moment, the cold helped me.  It cooled me down, the sharpness allowing my brain to somewhat deal with the riot of sensation, the overload of sexual stimulation, and the crushing bite of the clamps.  It took a minute or two, but I finally straightened, no longer leaning on the wall, and entered the mall.

The outdoor store is this huge single room that has everything from a giant freshwater aquarium to boats to hunting bows inside.  I like it because I've been fucked a number of times in this building.  The dressing rooms are large and roomy, and despite a few rather difficult encounters, most of the staff I've met has been very understanding.  Of course, I say that ignoring the fact that I've also gotten in to some serious trouble in this store and technically am probably persona non grata.  But hey, they haven't caught me long enough to trespass me yet!  In any event, I wasn't really interested in completing the first portion of my assignment here, besides I still had to go talk to Julie, another one of my long time mistresses who enjoys using me.  Or is it abusing me?

Despite the fact that I was wearing a rather shapeless duster, I felt the eyes of practically every male around me latch on too my ankles and work their way up.  I knew what was going through their minds, not because I'm psychic or anything, but because it was obvious.  What would YOU think if you saw a pretty girl, with dyed, fire engine red hair, walking around wearing a calf high duster and stripper high heels?  You'd wonder "is she wearing anything under there?"   I know that's what they were thinking, and the knowledge they were thinking it, combined with the fact that they were right to think it, made me even more embarrassed and turned on.  Of course I blushed scarlet, once more trying to pick up the pace, only to be halted to a slow and steady, hip-rolling walk thanks to the excruciating bite of the clamps.  I turned left and proceeded down the concourse, attracting attention like a candle pulls in bugs.  No one approached or said anything, and while it took me almost ten minutes to get to Julie’s small jewelry store, I managed without any additional issues. 

I met Julie on another assignment, much like this one, except it didn't hurt as much.  In an instant Julie had understood my psychology, my bent, my interests, my perversions and despite the fact that she is a full six or seven years younger than I am, she took me in hand.  I've done several "assignments" either with her, or created by her, each one a mixture of public humiliation and some pretty intense whippings.  I've experienced some rather wild scenarios with Julie, but there is one thing I've learned about her over the last year and a half.

She's a hitter.  Usually the first thing that happens to me when I get into Julie’s store is a vicious smack across both breasts.

I entered the store and her face lit up.  She knew I was coming of course. I had emailed her Master Brandon's instructions several days earlier and since her store was empty of customers, she came right up to me and grabbed me in a bear hug.  The clamps dug into me and I almost lost it again, but then she was pulling me into the back room.  I followed obediently and entered the small storage area.  There was a desk, some shelves, a small bathroom, and some electrical stuff against one wall.  Julie merely pushed me over toward the desk chair, bent me over, which did nothing to relieve the pain in my nipples and clit, and lifted the back of my duster.  The impact of her hand on my ass was brutal and the two ounce weight hanging from my breasts bobbed, even under my duster.  Pain exploded through me and I gasped, the heat in my ass almost eclipsed the throbbing heat of the clamps.  She spanked me again, hard and I let out a tiny cry, trying to stifle it.  Another stroke came and I couldn't hold the position anymore, straightening and moving my hands to cover my bottom.  Master Brandon had NOT instructed Julie to spank me red.  She was doing that on her own.  On the other hand, it beat the hell out of her smacking me across both tits.  She gave me a dark look.

"Are you ready to start?" she asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. 

"Fine.  Open the coat and give me the bottle," Julie commanded.

With trembling fingers I turned and opened the front of my coat.  Five buttons took a while but I managed.  Then I fished the small bottle of oil from my pocket and handed it to her.  Julie inspected the clamps, eliciting another cry from me as she tugged on the weight.  Then without another comment, she uncapped the bottle and allowed several drops to fall down upon my left nipple.  As soon as the oil coated the crushed and bitten nub, she moved over to my right breast and repeated the process.  By the time she was angling to coat my clit, my left nipple felt as if it had been dipped in molten lava, burning and tingling in this cold heat that seemed to enhance my perception of the toothed maw crushing my nub.  Seconds later my right nipple joined the first and I started hyperventilating as my clitoris suddenly reported a strange tingle that had nothing to do with the clamp.  Julie straightened up and gave my weight another tug, sending another jolt of harsh pain exploding through me.  Then she handed me the bottle, told me to button up and get started.

I stumbled out of the jewelry store and headed down the concourse in a state of sexual agony.  I desperately wanted to cum, in ways that you possibly couldn't imagine.  The triple vibroballs were humming like mad inside me and even the clamp on my clit was erotically stimulating.  It hurt, yes.  It made me want to cum.  I dipped into a larger clothing store and worked my way to the back, toward the dressing rooms, disappearing inside with a snatched outfit.  As I closed the door behind me my body trembled and I struggled to open my coat.  I hurriedly tugged the three vibroballs out from between my legs, hastily shutting them off before pulling my dildo out of my duster pocket. The Stinging O lube still burned between my legs and at the tips of my breasts, but I rammed that rubber cock into myself with as much force as I could muster.  I sat down on the little bench, the chain and weight tugging at my breasts and clit.  Pain exploded through me as much as pleasure and I frantically thrust the thick rubber cock into myself in what can only be described as desperate wantonness.  My hips jerked wildly, my chest heaved.  The thick squelching sound of the cock being drawn in and out of my pussy was clearly audible and my moans of relief, of anguish, of need, filled the little room.

When I came I couldn't help crying out.  I exploded in a wet burst that soaked my thighs, my hand, my rubber dildo, not to mention a good portion of the seat beneath me and even a bit of my duster.  I doubled over, trying to recover, but the stimulation that had taken me to this point didn't stop.  Most girls, when they've orgasmed once, or sometimes twice, start to develop a sensitivity to the stimulation, a sort of edge that is distinctly unpleasant.  I'm technically no different.  Except for one thing.  Being hurt turns me on.  Some people think I'm sick. Some think I'm just fucking weird.  A doctor I once explained my nature too told me that I had severe psychological damage and recommended therapy.  A priest I once confessed too told me that I was seeking out punishment for my sins and could he please have a blowjob.  So you can see, I'm a bit fucked up.  In any event, after that orgasm at the mall, in that dressing room, my torment changed.  I was stuck in the classic Catch 22 scenario.  The orgasm hurt.  The hurt turned me on.  Being turned on drives me to orgasm.  The orgasm hurts.

Already, my brain was shutting down.  I pulled the dildo out of my sodden pussy, licked it clean as quickly as possible, and shoved it back into my pocket. I replaced it with the triple vibroballs, which quickly did something inside me that had me shuddering. I pulled another one of the two ounce weights out of my pocket.  This was hooked on the key ring that dangled from the nipple clamp chain between my breasts, the long line stretching down to my clamped clit.  The extra two ounces didn't hurt that much, but I could tell it was there and the doubling of the pressure on my clit and nipples slowly became this overwhelming presence that I could barely deal with.   As it was, I struggled to get my duster closed.  I buttoned it from the bottom up and as I got to the fifth and last button, I remembered another one of the little instructions Master Brandon had given me.  My fingers fell away, leaving the last button undone and I took a deep breath before exiting the little room. 

There was a clerk outside and she was looking at me in a concerned way, at least until she saw my shoes.  That combined with the duster, along with enough skin beneath my neck to make it relatively clear I wasn't wearing anything underneath the duster, made her grimace in disgust.  I blushed, totally humiliated as she categorized me in the "fucking slut" column.  I hurried away, heading back to the jewelry store where Julie waited.  This time she had a few customers so I was forced to loiter, my loins trembling as I struggled not to squirm and wiggle in pain induced sexual desperation.  Finally Julie was free and I was pushed into the back room.  A quick check of my clamps and weights followed and then she asked for the bottle of Stinging O.  In all honesty, the burning chemical reaction of my oil lubricant really didn't overwhelm the pain of the alligator clamps.  But Julie was good and dripped healthy amounts onto each breast and then my clit.  This time though she worked the oil into my heavy breasts with her fingers, moving my clamped chest around and sending more sparks of agony up through my nipples.  Then she helped me button my duster again, four buttons worth.  She turned me around, swatted me on the ass, and sent me out once again.

I stumbled through the mall, which is actually not as hard as it seems when you're making a fool of yourself while tottering around on platform heels that shoot you skyward a full eight inches.  I'm experienced walking in heels, as a nympho humiliation pain slut you have to be, but I'm NOT used to doing it while stuffed with three, vibrating, egg sized bullets, while my clitoris and both nipples are caught in painful metal toothed clamps, all while those same spots are drenched with an oil mixture that is four parts grapeseed oil, two parts chilli oil, and one part cinnamon oil.  The human body just isn't designed to handle that and still look like a sex goddess walking.  I started attracting not just attention, but a few humanitarian inquiries.  Those are always tough to handle.  What do you say when someone asks if you're okay?  "Oh yes, I'm fine thank you. I just have three metal clamps chewing on my privates while the sex toy that's stuffed up inside me is going crazy!"

Sometimes honesty is NOT the best policy. 

After the third time I was approached, asked if I was okay, and eyefucked by the good Samaritan, I found another store.  I made a precursory browse, selected an item to "try on", and disappeared into the tiny changing room at the back.  It was much smaller than the first one I had found myself in, but at that point it didn't matter.  What mattered was that I was allowed to turn off the vibroballs.  I sighed in bliss as they went silent and I'll admit I took my time pulling them out, licking them clean of my juices, and then putting them aside.  I still hurt of course, but without the triple vibroballs driving my libido, I regained a bit of control.  I tugged my dildo out of the duster pocket, spread my legs, and slowly drove it in with one steady push. 

Ever been fucked with a dildo?  If you're a guy, the answer to that question is a resounding no.  If you're a girl, I hope you HAVE been fucked with a dildo.  Don't get me wrong, cock is great.  Real cock is the best.  But there are aspects of dildos that I really like.  One of them is I can screw them in at the pace I want.  And right then, I wanted slow, heavy, thick, and deep.  Really deep.  I almost wished I had brought my Core Driller dildo, a twelve inch monstrosity shaped like a black rocket ship.  When that thing goes deep I feel it pressed against my cervix.  The nine inch Husky dildo was nice of course, but I had to work it back and forth, twisting my hips, to get the depth I needed.  Every time I twisted of course, the two weights that dangled down near my belly tugged on the string and chain.  Sharp sparks seemed to shoot through my breasts and up from between my legs.  The collective sexual hurt I was feeling was quite impressive.  There was the painful crushing sensation of the clamps chewing on my clit and nipples, throbbing as my heart labored to push blood into the crushed tips.  Then there was the steady tug on those clamps, adding a whole new dimension of agony to the hurt I was already experiencing.  This hurt was sharp, like shocks of electricity, which to be honest, I've had done to me before.  You don't know agony until you've been tazered between the legs, trust me.  While this wasn't that bad, it was still a steady torment, like having needles repeatedly thrust into sensitive parts.

Yes, I've had that happen to me too.

Then of course there was the fact that my pussy had been over-sensitized by the vibroballs.  Hell, not just the vibroballs.  The ben wa balls I had worn from early that morning had started the process, getting me sexual aroused, keeping me that way, every step rubbing my insides so that if felt like I was being constantly finger fucked.  Not enough to get off of course, just enough to keep me soaked and wanting.  Then the triple vibroballs did their dance inside me, stirring me like a boiling pot of pasta, waiting for me to turn into a limp wet noodle of sexual yumminess.  Add the nine inch rubber dildo, and you can just imagine the sensations going through my body.  Season with the threat of public exposure, and a dash of exhibition, and you have a recipe perfect for the torment, a major torment, of a nympho humiliation pain slut celebrating two years of doing sexually insane things.

Don't try this at home kiddies.  Try it at the mall.

I exploded with a teeth rattling groan that wrung me like a wet rag.  I slid down, my body puddling just as surely as the dripping juices streaming from between my legs.  I tugged the dildo free, another groan as it left my pussy empty and I seemed to collapse against the wall, just resting, savoring the after glow of extreme orgasm.  Sure, there were still hurts, and they still pressed against me, urging me into another orgasmic ordeal.  I ignored them for a bit though and when I finally felt the wash of endorphin and adrenaline fade, those hurts rushed back with a sharp edge.  I gasped, rolling up into a ball, which did not make my clit or nipples feel any better.  I struggled to get the vibroballs back into my pussy and finally managed, once again turning them on to their highest setting.  My pussy clamped tightly around them and my hips jerked and I found myself whispering in desperation "More please... hurt me.  More... please hurt me."

Yes, that is disturbing. Don't you find that disturbing?  As soon as my own personal earthquake machine was once again buried in the crevasse between my legs, I pulled the third two ounce weight from my pocket.  I clipped it next to the other two and bit my lip as the added pressure pulled on my tender bits even more intensely.  I cried out, whimpering as I buttoned up my duster.  This time however I left the top two buttons undone, revealing conclusively that I wasn't wearing a shirt.  You still couldn't see my nipples, but you could see the top half of both breasts easily enough.  I stumbled out of the dressing room and worked my way out of the store.

The walk back to Julie's store was agonizing.  Everything hurt.  I had to stop frequently because walking was rubbing something inside me, making the vibroballs move in a way that send sharp shards of sensitized stimulation up through me.  Once I thought I was going to cum from it and I ducked into a small store and just stood there at the entrance, mouth open, hips jerking as I struggled to master the pleasure, the pain, the humiliation.  I succeeded and kept going, arriving at the small jewelry store in a state of mind reserved for victims of torture and extreme sexual addiction.

Have you heard of sexual addiction?  I have.  In fact, even though I've never been officially diagnosed with it, I suspect that I am a classic case.  If I'm allowed to, I'll masturbate three or four times a day, though I admit being constantly stuffed with sex toys keeping you in a state of sexual need might contribute to that.  But even when I was living with Kari in college, I was constantly wanting sex. It didn't matter to me.  All I needed was a reasonably healthy male, or hell... sometimes just something cock shaped, to fulfill my needs. Sex addiction is a serious condition that requires patience and understanding to deal with.

I love being addicted to sex.

Julie pushed me into the back room and I unbuttoned my duster to prove to her I had the third weight dangling from my clamp harness.  I don't know what else to call it.  Harness seems to work.  Six ounces of lead swung midway down my torso, pulling hard on the three alligator clamps attached to my privates.  Oh god it hurt.  It didn't help either when Julie pulled a thin plastic rod, as thick as a straw and as long as three feet, from out of her desk.  I was instructed to remove my duster.  Naked except for the harness of course, clamps and all.  The wire to the triple vibroballs remote stretched across the room from my pussy to the duster draped on the desk chair.

"Do you think this is going to hurt?" she asked as she raised the cane.  I nodded vigorously.

The cane whistled sharply and impacted on my ass.  I yelped, loudly and then groaned as the sting blossomed sharply in my rump.  Julie let loose another stroke and added a second welt to the first, striping my rear end in deep red lines.  Another two strokes followed, each one punctuated by Julie looking out the window of the little back room to see if there was anyone in her store.  Evidently there wasn't because she swung again each time.

"Four more on your ass, or one across your breasts?" she asked.  I visibly quailed. It's one thing to get a cane stroke across your ass.  It's another to get one on your breasts when both nipples are caught tightly in alligator clamps.  But I knew what she wanted to hear. 

"Please Mistress, Julie... can I have both?" I asked, my voice cracking.  Julie grinned in delight and kissed me passionately. Her tongue drove into my mouth and when she finally broke the kiss she kept one hand on the back of my neck.

"I want you!  Come over to my place tonight, please?" she begged.  I nodded.  Sex slaves don't argue.  Besides, NHPS Rule #2 states clearly that a nympho humiliation pain slut can not refuse instructions given to her directly that do not violate her limits.

Julie grinned and then raised the cane.  A single stroke across my ass brought me to the verge of tears and as I was reeling from that, she brought the cane down across the tops of my breasts.  It wasn't a very hard stroke, but it certainly left a red line across both.  New pain riddled through me and Julie hit my ass again.  Then to my shock, she laid another red welt across my bosom, even closer to my nipples.  I screeched and she tossed aside the cane and slammed her hand into my backside three or four times for each cheek. 

I felt like I was on fire.  My loins were sopping wet and jerking around even as my central nervous system tried to cope with all of the signals streaming from my rear end, my loins, my nipples, my clit, and even the tops of my breasts.  But unlike you, or maybe LIKE YOU, my brain does weird things.  All of those pain signals shot up through my spine, got to my brain, and were suddenly converted into something only a masochist, a sexual masochist, could love.  My pussy tightened convulsively and I knew I was right on the edge again.  Julie sensed it too and she smiled at me.  She pulled the bottle of Stinging O out of my pocket and quickly dripped enough oil on my tits and pussy to set me on fire.  Streaks of oil slipped down the undersides of my breasts and onto my abdomen.  My entire slit was slick with oil.

"Button up, girl.  It's time for another walk," Julie said, pulling back after tucking my bottle back into my pocket.  I buttoned up my duster, once more leaving two of the fasteners loose.  As before, half my breasts and most of my cleavage was clearly on display, however the big issue was no longer "she isn't wearing a shirt!" It would be "Holy shit!  Someone WHIPPED her tits!"  Julie pushed me out into the mall and sent me on my way with another swat to my bottom, which I barely felt through the duster. 

Read Part Two

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