Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Vol. 10
The moment I stepped out onto the roadway I knew things weren’t exactly going to go my way. I was tense. Very tense. And there was something else, something deep inside me that wasn’t cooperating the way I had wanted. It was like an itch demanding to be scratched, a secret begging to be told, something I could feel rumbling inside me, pushing me toward some unseen goal. I took a deep breath and cleared my mind. It took a lot of willpower to do it, but I managed. I had things to do. Tasks to complete, and I couldn’t let the little stuff distract me. I moved to the front of my Ford F-150, a dirty and rather durable work truck which was haphazardly parked on the shoulder of the farm to market road that bordered my family’s property.
The sky was cloudy but it was still hot and at ten o’clock in the morning I could sense the promise of another hot South Texas day. Summer wasn’t technically gone, despite the kids heading back to school, and another day in the low to mid-nineties was something I would only tolerate and not welcome. I glanced back and forward, looking down the dusty and empty road. There weren’t any cars in view, but that didn’t mean much anymore since the rolling hills of west Houston, almost a quarter of the way to San Antonio and south of the no longer small town of Katy, were just tall enough to easily conceal an oncoming car. I would be lucky to even hear the roar of a motor before they were on top of me.
Four years ago it wasn’t a problem. That’s when the tradition started. It was all Mistress Ellen’s fault too. At first she wanted me to do it over at Thomas Park, but that park is tiny and there were too many people there. And as a sexual submissive with clear and specific limits, one of them being to stay out of jail, Mistress Ellen was willing to capitulate on the location if not the substance of our new tradition. Four years ago the suburban sprawl had only partially made it out toward my parent’s farm and the likelihood of a driver coming down the barely paved roadway had been almost nil. I could have stood on the side of the road naked for hours and run a fairly good chance of never being seen. Now I was going to have to hurry if I didn’t want someone getting a show.
I started with my boots, a sensible place to begin when you’re wearing an outfit like the one I had on. I live a sort of secret life. On a regular day while driving by you might see a pretty, girl-next-door sort of person, with fire-engine red hair, a light complexion peppered with freckles, a light farmer’s tan, wearing a pair of tight blue jeans, a tee shirt, and maybe a long sleeve over-shirt, unbuttoned and loose. My feet would be encased in work boots, my hair tied back in either a braid or a pony tail, a cowgirl hat on my head, looking about as far away from incredibly sexy or slutty as possible. Conservative attire from top to bottom. Heck, even my earrings are just simple emerald studs. I’m the epitome of Texas Cowgirl.
And if given the choice, that’s what I’d wear all the time.
But like I said, I have a secret; a deep dark secret that takes that cowgirl, spins her around in breathless excitement, strips away the boots and tube socks and even the plain, white cotton bra and panties. It’s the sort of secret that turns my cheeks scarlet and leaves me aching in places that decent girls don’t even talk about. It’s a terrible hunger inside me, tearing and ripping its way out, a mindset that takes the timid, socially awkward, shy little farm girl and turns her into something else. And worse - it happens so easily.
The gravel didn’t feel good on my feet, especially after I’d pulled my socks off, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Besides, I can hardly start complaining about little things, can I? I unbuckled the leather belt at my waist and then began pushing my jeans downward, exposing my white, panty clad bottom to the empty roadway. Still fully dressed from the waist up, I slid the panties down, revealing my bare bottom and the smooth petals of my slit. A sheen of glistening moisture made it relatively apparent that I was aroused, which for me is something of a permanent state, part of that “deep dark secret” I was mentioning. I stepped out of the panties, picked them up off the dusty gravel, folded them neatly, and then placed them next to my blue jeans on the hood of the truck. Trust me, the fact that I was only half dressed with my lower half on display had me trembling. I was scared to death someone would come over the hill behind me.
My two shirts came next, each folded gently and placed on the pile sitting atop the hood of my truck until I was only wearing my bra. I unclasped it, feeling the freedom that comes from being nude outside, and I placed it down right next to the small plastic bag holding my new outfit. According to Mistress Ellen’s rules, that was that. I’d stripped, completely, in public, bare ass naked. I had to take everything off first - everything; then fold it neatly, placing it on the hood of the truck, and only then could I begin to dress again. I also wasn’t allowed to take off two things at once, so there wasn’t any chance I could snag my panties on the way down with my jeans and minimize the probabilities that some lucky driver would get a glimpse of my totally naked body.
You’d be surprised how quick a girl can strip when she’s motivated. I think I had everything off my body in about thirty seconds flat, all neatly folded on the hood. I stood there for just a moment, my eyes tracing my lines, examining myself and really looking.
I guess I should describe myself. I’m five foot four and a quarter, and yes that quarter is damned important when you’re this short. I’m curvy in the right places, mostly at the hip and bust, and run on the lean side due to the fact that I spend most of my time working my ass off running a farm that used to take three people to keep going. And last but not least, I’m not exactly model pretty. I’m more girl-next-door super cute. My red hair screams “look at me,” but it’s dyed and comes from a bottle. If I’m standing in front of a fire engine with my back to you it’s likely you’ll think I’m headless. That’s how red my hair is.
The emerald studs in my ear lobes weren’t my only jewelry, though only at moments like this would you be able to see the rest of it. The tip of my right breast was pierced with a gold circle, glinting nicely in the sunlight. It was a small hoop, nothing too heavy or difficult to deal with, but it acted as a sort of connector for something a little more tangible. Hanging from the nipple piercing was a small gold padlock. I’d never been given the key because the lock was also symbolic. Emblazoned with the emblem of a rose, the charm sized piece of metal branded me as one of the submissive girls of the Society of the Golden Rose.
Which had absolutely nothing to do with why I was out on the side of the road, buck naked. The story of the Society of the Golden Rose is one I’ve already told and if you haven’t read about it then you have something to look forward to. But in a nutshell, the Society is a group of rather wealthy, dominant women, most of whom are lesbian, who have their own submissive female and meet in various social and sexual contexts for fun and games. Those games normally included all sorts of interesting props; like whips and chains along with paddles, clamps, and hot wax. For me, it worked well with that dark secret and was a fun way to pass the time. But reminiscing about past Society meetings or contemplating the duality of my nature, the two sides of me constantly warring with each other, wasn’t what this was all about. Secrets. Secrets to discover, right?
I ran around my truck. Chinese fire drill style. Naked. Gravel dug into the soft arches of my feet and the padlock hanging from my right nipple bounced as I jogged around the truck. I kept my eyes on the roadway, but was still lucky enough to be alone. No one was watching.
I’m picturing you sitting there, while big letters spelling the acronym “WTF” appear in your head as you imagine what it looks like for a cute, naked redhead to be hauling her bare ass around a pickup truck. Well, it wasn’t my fault. It was a test. A test of resolve, a test of obedience, and mostly just a test to see if I’d actually do it.
Master Phillip had contacted me with high praise for both my writing and my bubbling personality, and the emails we exchanged were both spirited and interesting. Evidently there are websites out there that actually explain my background, my limits, and that dark secret that I keep bottled up except for the times when I don’t, which is where Master Phillip discovered that the rumor of me accepting “sexual assignments” from complete strangers was actually true. There was a little back and forth between us and then a detailed, devilish, totally sadistic and sexually insane assignment emerged. Master Phillip was almost as specific in his requirements as Master Dan, one of my other online doms, but not quite as cruel as Master Brandon. I’d say the man was balanced with his needs, though at that particular moment, as I ran around my truck, I kinda wondered about his sense of humor.
I hurried, wincing as sharp pieces of gravel dug into my tender soles. My naked fanny wriggled as I practically sprinted around my truck, my right hand grazing the panels as I circled the vehicle. I felt a sudden rush of arousal, my sex tightening, wetness moistening my thighs and I knew without a doubt that if someone came over the hill right then and wanted to screw my brains out, I’d have let them. But I made it back around to the front of the truck unobserved, right back to where the package Kari had sent me waited. Another worried glance over my shoulder reassured me that I was still alone, and with a single nail I slit the plastic bag that held the clothing that Kari had given me and examined my new outfit.
There were two pieces, a camisole shirt and a skirt, and I was less than impressed. Neither were expensive, at least to a woman like Kari, who regularly bought four hundred dollar shoes and always wore the latest fashions. Both the skirt and the camisole were something that my Wal-Mart budget would probably choose, though had I been left to my own devices I’d have selected something stylistically different. The blue colored skirt only came down mid-thigh, and that’s being generous, though I admit the waist was decent, instead of the usual hip huggers Kari forces me to wear. But none of that really mattered. No, for this assignment, for Master Phil, the important feature were the buttons - five of them from top to bottom, holding the skirt closed. I pulled it up over my bare ass and began buttoning those massive buttons, all five of them, closed.
The camisole shirt became my next problem. I slipped it on over my head and groaned. Kari had a bad habit of deliberately buying clothes that were too small for me. While most girls would consider this a nice compliment, I knew she was aware that I was only 117 lbs. soaking wet and that I could generally pick out my tee shirts in the juniors section, provided there was enough stretch in the chest to fit my grapefruit sized breasts. That said, the camisole that Kari had picked out barely contained my figure. It was tight across the stomach and almost bursting across the bust. Like the skirt, the camisole shirt sported five buttons that were supposed to hold the front halves of the shirt together. Unfortunately after I buttoned up the camisole, the fasteners were actually strained to the point where the material wouldn’t lay flat. I found this extremely disconcerting since from the right angle you could actually see way more of my bosom than was appropriate, right through the stretched gaps in the shirt. Guys would be fighting for the right to stand by my side in order to catch a nipple slip.
The cleavage was impressive though. I know I should call it a collar, but my gut reaction was “what collar?” and it was so extremely low that I had to resist the urge to grab the material and pull it up. Half of each breast was bulging out of the top. My nipple piercing and the padlock were pressed tightly to the white cotton, just below the seam, making it very, very apparent that I was one of those girls. Hell, you could see the gold color through the ivory cream of the shirt.
I was just finished getting my boobs in place when a car roared over the hill behind me. It only slowed a bit as it passed by, no doubt checking out the redhead girl standing barefoot in the gravel, right in front of her Ford F-150, dressed in a micro-skirt and hot top. Then it was gone and I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. Shaking my head at the insanity of my life, I gathered up my folded clothing, stuck it all back into the plastic bag my new outfit had come in, and went back to the cab of the truck.
I discovered quickly that the flared nature of the skirt, along with the questionable hem, meant that sitting equated flashing. I pulled one foot up into my lap and used a wet wipe to clean the bottoms of my feet. Then I fished the inappropriate footwear Master Philip had specified out of the footboard and put them on my feet. I wasn’t pleased. As I slipped my toes into the high heels I knew that by the end of the day my arches would be aching, my heels would be sore, and my back would be killing me. That’s what happens to a woman when she’s ordered to walk miles in a pair of stripper shoes, complete with five inch heels, except raised up on four inch platforms. I appreciated the extra height, but would have gladly traded that it for a more sensible heel - one that didn’t require low flying airplanes to detour around my head. And that was my outfit, from top to bottom. Well almost. There was one more thing. My toy of the day. The very essence of my deep dark secret, the one rumbling inside me.
Several years ago I made an agreement that I would follow a certain set of rules. One of those rules mandated that I always be ready for sex, especially sadistic sex, and the best way to accomplish that was a series of toys and objects that I would constantly endure, stuffed inside me, walking around on the brink of orgasm. The idea is to keep me permanently aroused, ready for sexual use at all times, but the reality is that my assigned toy of the day is there to sexually frustrate me. Take for example, my ben wa balls, two golf-ball sized spheres, coated with soft rubber, connected with a simple string, in which two heavy weights are freely contained. Every step I make causes the ben wa balls to roll through my sex, the offset balance creating all sorts of interesting, arousal-causing movements. It’s sort of like having someone’s fingers inside you, gently swirling and caressing. And it’s not enough to actually drive you over the edge. Oh no. There’s no relief with the ben wa balls. It’s all about keeping you wet and slowly driving you banana fucking nuts crazy.
I flipped up the bottom of my skirt, exposing my wet slit, a small loop of string emerging from between my petals. I snagged it with a finger, and then with a deep breath, I began pulling on it, spreading my legs and moaning quietly as I tugged the pair of connected ben wa balls from inside me. I’d worn them all morning, traipsing around the barn and farmyard, every step a maddening caress that demanded I fuck something. Now it was five hours later and I was very, very needy. They came free with a delicious sucking sound as my pussy tightened around them, as if my libido didn’t want them to go either.
I looked down. Just wait little pussy. More is coming.
I brought the balls up to my mouth and delicately licked them. The taste of my own arousal is very familiar to me and I like it, but I admit it would be nice just to be able to wrap my ben wa balls in a clean towel and set them aside. But I’d been informed once that a good little sex slut always licks her toys clean. I’m not so sure of that actually but I try to follow orders. By myself, I probably was more efficient than sexual, but it wasn’t like I had an audience watching me lick my own cream off the two orbs. Eventually though I smacked my lips and wrapped the ben wa balls up in a clean cloth and tucked them away in my canvas bag. I only had to rummage around a little bit before I found the next item I needed; my vibroballs, the big brother to the ben wa balls I’d had inside me all morning.
My vibroballs are simple. Two egg shaped “bullets”, as long as my thumb and just a little thicker and both contain a small motor. Connected by wires to a battery back, the vibroballs are the kind of sex toy that can drive me straight to orgasm or keep me frustrated on a level that only people who appreciate watching paint dry can enjoy. On the lowest setting I can handle almost half a day’s worth of vibrations, walking in a sort of sexually induced catatonic state, where everything I think about is tinged with the building need between my legs. On medium, I can stand maybe an hour, possibly two, depending on how distracted I am, or if other things are being done to me. And if the controller is cranked all the way to the highest level, well…
I rubbed the first vibroball against the wet petals of my sex, smearing the pink plastic orb with my own personal lubricant. I had some oil in my bag, but I didn’t need it, and to be honest, I didn’t want it either. It wasn’t the kind of oil sane people use when engaging in sexual fun. The first ball slipped in deep and I followed it up with a second penetration, gasping as I watched another car go by, the driver’s eyes looking at me curiously. He didn’t stop and neither did I. I used a single finger to push the two plastic eggs deeply into my well. I groaned, my loins tightening with delight, the vibroballs fuller and more satisfying, even off, than my ben wa balls.
If you’re expecting me to say I then turned them on, you’d be disappointed. I may be a slut, and a nymphomaniac, and even a depraved, deviant sexual masochist, but I’m not an idiot. Instead I started the motor of my truck instead of the ones inside my slit, and pulled out onto the road. I had places to go and vibrating my way into orgasmic distraction is a good way to commit suicide. I’ve always had a standard rule. No vibrations during driving. Admittedly, I’ve sometimes used that as sort of an out - a way to relieve some of the pressure and escape the consequences of my poor choices, but the principle is sound, even if I’ve abused it occasionally.
It didn’t take me long to get to I-10 and I turned east, heading toward Houston. My air conditioner works great, so except for my hardened nipples threatening to tear their way through the flimsy material of the camisole, I was quite comfortable. Even the tightness of the shirt didn’t attract attention, at least not more than what I usually get from other drivers. And trust me, people look at me all the time, even if I’m dressed in blue jeans and a tee shirt. Fire engine red hair on a twenty something girl does that.
I sometimes rank sexual discomfort in two ways and both are counter-intuitive. See, if left to my own devices, I’d never dress in revealing clothes. I’d never keep a sex-toy constantly buried between my legs. I’d never go out and about in public looking for deviant minds to inflict all sorts of depraved things upon my person. The very thought of it turns my knees to jelly. And so the more intense the assignment, the more demanding it is, the higher the discomfort ranking. That’s the cowgirl in me talking, the conservative, shy, somewhat boring half of me..
Of course the other way I rank sexual discomfort is by how close to orgasm I am. Over the years I’ve found the best way to describe that slow, steady drive toward climax as climbing a mountain, one that ends in a cliff. In my mind, I keep hearing Wallace Shawn, the actor who played the character Vizzini from “The Princess Bride” saying in his silly voice “the Cliffs of Orgasm!” Okay, yes I know he said “the cliffs of despair,” but seriously… orgasm is way better than despair. Trust me.
So as far as sexual discomfort, I was ranking a solid five on the first scale, and a weak two on the other. I was aroused. I wanted to cum. But I was pretty far down the mountain and the silent vibroballs and no movement inside me weren’t exactly doing much to motivate my libido into an ascent. All the vibroballs accomplished was to keep me just as wet as I’d been before, which I guess was a good thing. Cumming while driving isn’t smart, so it was just as well that I left the controller sitting on the seat beside me alone. Of course that didn’t stop me from doing certain things. I’d be driving along and find my hand coming up to my nipple, gently tweaking the hardened tip, or tracing the piercing on the other side, sending little shivers of pleasure through myself. Every once in a while I’d slip a hand between my legs and run a finger through my wet and swollen petals, gasping with delight before pulling my finger out and sucking it clean. And there were more than a few times when I had to stop myself from reaching for the controller, for just a quick little surge.
I drove forty minutes into south Houston, heading toward the Rice Village area where Kari Anders’ office is located. Kari is not only my best friend, but my lover and mistress, an awkward and strange relationship that started when we were teenagers. Both of us are bi-sexual, with a penchant for men, which might explain why she’s living with her boy toy Robert instead of me. Frankly, I’d go nuts if I had to share a domicile with her again. She’s OCD - obsessive compulsive disorder - and a neat freak on top of being a sadistic pervert. Everything has to be in its place and God help anyone who doesn’t put something where it’s supposed to go. I have no idea how Robert has managed all these years. I’m actually kind of jealous of Kari. She’s already found Mr. Right, while I’m still bouncing from one Mr. Right Now to another.
Kari is also an interior decorator catering to the ultra-rich. She makes six figures and I’m pretty sure the first number isn’t a one, two, or three. Her office building is surrounded by lush, tropical jungle landscaping, totally appropriate for Houston’s humidity, and located close enough to the bayou to make the greenery even wilder. I keep expecting to see an alligator one day sitting on the lawn. I pulled up into the parking lot, just a few spaces down from her candy apple red convertible. Red has always been Kari’s favorite color - which explains my hair.
Even before getting out of the truck I had the vibroballs’ controller in my hand, the thumb dialing the little wheel up just a bit. The vibroballs rumbled into life, my sex tightening with need and I let out another little gasp, my heart fluttering. I swallowed hard once, wishing that the previous day had been filled with orgasms to offset what I was feelings, instead of a similar demanding day of denial. I wasn’t at the cliffs of orgasm, but I sure wanted to be there.
I climbed out of the truck and stuck the vibroballs controller in the waistband of my skirt since I didn’t have any pockets. The pink wire was painfully obvious, going from the battery pack down my side, to disappear beneath the hem of the dark blue skirt. Anyone seeing me would immediately wonder what the wire went to and the color and my attire would probably lead their suggestive imagination in the right direction.
I walked into Kari’s building lobby on my stupid “fuck me now” high heels, navigating across the little decorative stream via the wooden bridge with one hand firmly on the rail, and then turned right toward Kari’s offices. As I approached I could see through the glass door into the small antechamber that passed as a waiting room for my mistress and then right down the hall to her main office. The lights were on and while I couldn’t see Kari directly, I knew she was there.
I opened the door and heard the small chime announce my arrival. Kari knew I was coming so I didn’t expect her to appear and I was right, though if she’d been in her office, she could have merely leaned over slightly and peered through the office door straight down the corridor. I walked down the hall, the vibroballs still gently purring inside me, and glanced into her office. Empty. Which meant she’d be in the art room. I took the ninety degree turn, took maybe half a dozen steps down the hall, and stuck my head into the very next office.
I’ve been told that creative minds are rarely tidy, and as an author I find the truth to that statement uncomfortably accurate. I’m not a slob mind you. I’m neat. I like clean bathrooms and vacuumed rugs and I even dust occasionally. But the battle with entropy has to be a conscious act with me. Otherwise I find myself standing in something that could qualify as a federal disaster zone rather than my bedroom.
So you would expect that Kari’s art room would also be creatively untidy. And to the unpracticed eye, it was. Fabric books were stacked in a corner, there were samples of textiles and ceramic tiles and metal bricks. There were paint cards and light cards and wood stains. There was a massive drawing desk and enough pencils and charcoal and paint and hell - even crayons. And right in the center of it all sat Kari.
Kari is only a touch older than me and while I might be considered physically cute and just a little lush, Kari is a freaking Greek goddess. Think Aphrodite. Tall, blond, and striking, Kari is not cute. She’s elegant. She’s beautiful. She is chiseled perfection. Kari could have been a fashion model had she really wanted. Her long tresses are perfectly straight and go down to the middle of her back. The only reason I’m comparable to her is that I exude a sort of sensuous sexuality, a ripeness if you will, that Kari’s beautifully cold demeanor sometimes seems to lack. Don’t get me wrong. Kari is a passionate woman, but she can be cruel, hard, and sadistic. Half the men that meet her sense that she is a hunter and they the prey. The other half just run like hell. But that doesn’t mean they all don’t want her.
“Ah, you’re here,” she said simply. I nodded and looked at her expectantly. This wasn’t my first rodeo and I knew what was coming next.
“Well?” Her voice was quiet and forceful. “Strip.”
Kari kept a separate stool in her art room and I’d like to think it was specifically for me. It was leather, much higher than the chair she liked to sit in, and located immediately to the right of her little niche. I began unbuttoning my blouse, the five little fasteners opening easily between my fingers, as if they preferred to be in that state, and allowing my somewhat mashed boobs a bit of relief.
“The shirt looks good on you,” she observed with a grin.
My eyes narrowed. “It’s too small. I can barely fit in it.”
She laughed. “Yes. I think that’s the point. “
I bit my lip. “Except it will be a problem when I have to put on…” I began, but she held up her hand.
“I’m aware of it, but I know it will embarrass you. So I don’t really care.”
I sighed and nodded, not wanting to get ahead of myself or worse, in trouble. I finished opening the front of my camisole and took it off, laying it down on the back of the stool. Next came my skirt and I took the vibroballs controller out of my waistband and held it as I undid the five buttons that held the front of the mini together. And that was it. No bra. No panties. No stockings. Nothing else. In short order I was standing there nude, the wire to the vibroballs disappearing into my wet petals, wearing only a pair of shoes that wouldn’t have been out of place on a stage in a dark, loud, smoky club. And yes, I was very much aware of the fact that the front door of Kari’s business was unlocked and anyone could barge in on us.
“Have a seat and spread them,” Kari ordered, plucking a small, soft paint brush from a nearby jar. I climbed up into the stool and spread my legs, hooking my heels on the steel foot rest that circled a few inches from the base. I stretched myself wide apart, opening my knees and tilting my hips so that my open sex was perfectly visible, right down to the little button of my bottom. Kari’s chair was on wheels and she turned, then grabbed a bottle of some clear fluid, shook it gingerly, and then opened it. Without another word she dipped her brush in, swirled the tool around once, and then pulled it out. She leaned forward toward me, and with a look of delighted concentration, began dabbing the brush across my clit.
“Oh my God,” I whispered a half second later, frozen in place. Kari looked up at me grinning.
“So are you really ready for this assignment?” she asked, the gentle bristles stroking my clit steadily.
My chest felt tight there was so much sensation - the really, really good kind - coming up from between my legs. I nodded stupidly, trying to focus on something other than the tingling of my clitoris. The brush was so soft, the caress so light, it was comparable, if not better, than being licked. My thighs rippled with sexual tension and I spread my knees even farther apart.
“Oh. I forgot to turn up the vibroballs,” Kari said. She reached out with her free hand and grabbed the remote. Suddenly the two motorized toys inside me churned into a higher state of agitation and with the little bullets set to medium I suddenly found myself being shoved insanely fast up the mountain of orgasmic need, the cliffs actually visible ahead. Master Phil had said I wasn’t supposed to cum either, and that meant I really, really needed to slow down.
Kari set the controller down on the shelf beside me and then went right back to brushing my clit. The brush she’d coated with the oily fluid and my clit began to warm. I groaned, my hips thrusting forward as my body tried to deal with the sensual stimulation. I suddenly realized that there I was going to tolerate this. Not after spending the previous day and all morning on edge, desperate and wanting. I hadn’t had an orgasm in over twenty four hours and this… this was too much.
“So, do you have everything you’ll need?” Kari asked conversationally, as if it were an everyday thing to have a naked, redhead, nympho humiliation pain slut sitting on a stool in front of her, legs spread wide apart, close to hyperventilating with sexual need.
“Yes,” I gasped, my fingers tight, nails digging into the white flesh of my thighs, right above my knees. I think I was gritting my teeth as well, all in an effort to resist the inevitable explosion that was barreling toward me like a runaway truck on the downward side of a mountain road.
“Nipplebands?” Kari asked, referring to a set of small, elastic rubber band type clamps that were meant to be set over a pair of nicely hardened nipples. They were in my canvas bag. Just in case I needed them. I nodded stupidly as a fresh wave of exquisite torment washed upward from my clit. My chest seemed to be having difficulty getting in a full breath and I was about as tense as you can get without having paralysis.
“Clover clamps?” Kari asked next. My clover clamps are just a set of specially designed, but quite common, BDSM accessories, though admittedly mine had been slightly altered by someone almost as methodically sadistic as Kari. Most clover clamps had smooth pincers. Mine had been given ridges resembling a pair of pliers, making slippage an almost unheard of word in my lexicon. I can’t remember the last time my clover clamps “slipped” off my nipple. As she asked, she lifted her free hand and her nail grazed the tip of my left breast, sending a surge of desperation through me that rocked my metaphorical boat like a rogue wave. I barely held on, trying not to cum so hard that I was making my jaw hurt from the tension. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes down, ten to go.
“And your butterfly vibrator?” The brush did this amazing swirl, dipping through my folds for just a half second before sending me back into orbit as Kari refocused her attention on my clitoris.
“In the bag!” I half squealed, my legs trembling with strain. My clit felt like it had been dipped in a warm bath, while the rest of me was just dealing with the ambient air temperature. It was like nothing I’d felt before. My toes curled in the stripper shoes, making my distress - well, I’m not sure I should call it distress - that much more obvious. And did Kari slow down? Did Kari maybe stop, just for a moment to let me catch my breath? Did she even care that I still had eight minutes left on the timer?
The brush went around in a circle and then she sort of dabbed at my clit with the bristles, sending these little tiny sparks into the roiling cauldron of my brain. I threw my head back, my legs trembling with need, and let go. I couldn’t hold on anymore. There was just no way. And as I finished that last little leg up the mountain and ran pell mell for the cliffs of orgasm, Kari was there with her tiny, soft brush, pushing me onward.
I stiffened and shuddered as the first orgasm in ages hit me like a freight train and Kari leaned back, avoiding the tiny squirt of fluids that erupted out of me and splattered the floor as well as a corner of her desk. She watched with studious eyes and a faux frown as she shook her head.
“Awww. Too bad, Breanne. That means you start this assignment off with a punishment.” She twisted back around and opened a drawer. I knew what was in there, but at that particular moment I was still riding high on the endorphins and adrenaline mixture that felt better than drugs. I’m an addict of a peculiar bent. You can take your heroin and cocaine, or leave your pot and meth. Me? I’ll take the all-natural, totally legal, wonder drug known as sex.
The leather sap she drew out of the drawer was different than the one I personally owned. This one was a little longer, and a lot more flexible, almost a cross between a leather paddle and a belt. She put down the little brush, making me whimper as it was pulled away from my clit, and then she laid the sap lightly across my folds, the edge right at my clitoris, the weight heavy against my sex.
She was going to spank my clit. I knew it. She knew it. It was the price of orgasm. I was supposed to hold off, to go into this assignment terribly aroused and on the edge and stay that way. Of course, we all know that such a proposition was never a reality. There was no way I’d be able to hold off that sort of caress from anyone, much less Kari. And I’m not stupid. The rest of the assignment Master Philip had designed for me was deliberately created to only present the illusion of me being able to hold off. I was well aware I’d bounce from one punishment to one orgasm to another punishment, with a healthy dose of public humiliation from one end to the other. Me holding off? That was the illusion.
“Brace yourself,” Kari warned me, pulling the leather sap away from my sex. I tensed, grabbing hold of the stool. Her wrist moved fast and the flexible leather snapped forward. For a second I was positive she’d intended to hit the seat of the stool, and that I just happened to be in the way, because a blistering sting exploded on my clitoris and down my labia that spread out and turned into a burn that made me hiss, even as I half came up out of my seat, my legs partially folding inward. Kari didn’t really let me recover either. I wasn’t even sitting back down as she slapped my sex again, cracking the nubile sap flat against me, sending fresh sparks and even more heat into my sex. I let out a shrill yelp which turned into a sort of whine. Kari responded by hitting me again.
In case you were wondering, it did hurt. Anytime you get spanked on your genitals, whether you’re a guy or girl, there’s going to be some pain. Thank God I’m a girl though, and not a guy, because I can’t imagine how bad the pain must be when you guys get racked. As it was, it hurt me when Kari smacked my sex with that leather paddle. There was the initial and horrible sting, which turned into this sharp heat, which slowly mellowed and spread deep, presuming that it wasn’t immediately replaced by another stinging slap!
But where most women would curl up into a little ball, whimpering and begging for their privates to be spared, I’m something of an outlier. I’ve had doctors tell me that I’m psychologically damaged. I’ve had priests tell me I’m a sinner. I’ve had lovers tell me I’m kinky. I’ve had teachers shake their heads in disbelief, torn between using me and correcting me. I know I’m messed up, strange, off, not-right-in-the-head. And when that sting and heat blossom between my legs, or on my breasts, or my bottom, or even the soles of my feet, something happens inside me. It hurts, oh yes, but it is such a turn-on. Something dark stirs inside me and I want more. I’ve been told that I’m a sexual masochist. I understand that. Come over and break my arm and I’ll scream and thrash and cuss and if you’re unlucky, shoot you since this does happen to be Texas and I’ve been known to carry while out on the farm. Come over and see if you can pinch off the tips of my breasts using a pair of pliers? Holy shit, get ready for me to thank you for it, offer myself up for more, and then orgasm.
And that’s scary.
So you can understand why I spread my legs even more, or why I slouched down, lifting my loins and presenting my open sex to Kari. You can understand the flushed look on my face, the thundering blood in my veins, or the fast, sharp breaths I took as I sucked in air around the pain. You can comprehend my desire, the overwhelming need I was feeling as the messed up portions of my brain twisted round in a strange dance, wheeling me right back up that stupid mountain, heading again for the cliffs of orgasm, as if I hadn’t just been there and fucking jumped.
Kari delivered a full fifteen solid strokes to my sex, flattening the folds and making my clit feel as if I’d just set it on a hot griddle with butter. The vibroballs, which were still purring along on medium during the whole punishment, only added another ingredient to the batter, and when she was done there were cookies in the oven. I was right back there, standing at the edge of the cliff, wishing she’d hit me just a few more times, pushing me off the edge so that I could float down in orgasmic ecstasy once more.
But she didn’t. Instead she put the sap back down on the desk, checked the time, and picked up the brush. Another dip in the warming oil preceded those soft bristles caressing my clit, but in seconds I was straining to hold back, fingers clenching the edge of the seat as if I were going to fall off, my legs still spread wide and straining, thighs rippling with tension, my clit swollen and practically begging for more strokes.
Kari is a musician and the instrument she plays is me. She knows how to make me sing, how to make me cry, how to make me beg, and how to make me cum. This time she worked me in circles until I was trembling with need, wanting her to finish, regardless of the consequences. I sat there on the stool, my thighs aching from being spread so wide, my body shaking as the bristles softly tormented me. Over and over I was right there, standing on the edge, only to have her back off, leaving me breathless and wanting, Time seemed to crawl and I’ve never known the minutes to seem so slow. I kept glancing up at the clock. Would I make it through this time? Or would I get another punishment?
She kept me right on the edge for a full fourteen minutes, torturing me, driving me slowly mad with ultimate need. And then, right when I thought I’d made it, that I’d won, that she’d enabled me to go through to the next part without further punishment, she suddenly picked up speed, focusing on my clit, the little bristles rubbing and swirling, fresh oil warming that little nodule until I was panting. All it took was another sensuous stroke, the fine hairs of the brush dancing across my clitoris and I was done, exploding once more, another orgasm, just then, at the back end of my time.
“Oh dear,” she said sweetly. “That’s earned you another punishment.”
I heard her, but it didn’t even phase me. I was still so wrapped up in the bliss of release that Kari could have said “Oh dear, I’m going to rip your clit off now, fry it, and serve it up as a delicacy,” and I wouldn’t have reacted. I just stayed on my stool, legs spread, thighs trembling, my breasts heaving as my pussy contracted in sweet spasms.
“Get down and bend over the stool,” Kari said, her voice going from syrupy sweet to cold and hard. Still in a pleasure daze I closed my legs, which was harder to do than you’d think, especially after being open like that for half an hour. I put my weight down on my toes and almost crumpled to the floor, but then adjusted and stood. Slowly, still totally out of it, not even caring what was coming next, I spun slowly, bent over, put my arms and head down on the stool, and presented my bottom to Kari.
She started with the same brush, dipped in the same oil, and she began teasing my bottom. I don’t want to get those of you who are squeamish any cause to turn away, but if you’ve ever heard of a “rimjob,” then she was doing it, except with the brush. Those soft bristles slid across my skin and I puckered and tensed. It was a very different sort of caress from what she’d done to my clit. I don’t get turned on by things happening to my bottom, except for spankings. But this - this was so out of the norm. She’d never done anything like this to me before.
It took less than five minutes before I was twitching, my hips jerking back and forth. I wasn’t sure if I was getting aroused again or what, but I couldn’t keep still. The brush was maddening, like a soft tongue licking at me. Sometimes Kari would send the brush across my perineum, almost touching my sex, but then would bring the oiled tip back up my crack almost to the small of my back. I was going crazy. It felt amazing, but also it tickled in a strange way. I trembled, trying not to move.
At ten minutes Kari seemed to know I’d had enough. I was impersonating a Mexican jumping bean on a hot plate and she put the brush down. I sighed in relief, except I didn’t see that little drawer opening again. Instead I felt something press against my anus. It slid in easily, at least the first half inch. It was only the width of Kari’s finger and to be honest, that’s what I thought it was at first. Except Kari started pumping it. I groaned. Oh my God it felt good! I was shocked, though even that emotion was still numbed by the two previous orgasms. Kari worked the soft, rubber clad plug deeper into my ass and I didn’t even object. With each new thrust of her hand more of the plug was embedded until finally it was all the way in and she left it there, giving my right cheek a warming slap.
“There. Your punishment is keeping the anal plug in there.”
Kari laughed. “Back up on the stool, legs spread again. You know what’s coming next.”
I straightened, feeling like I’d just run two miles in ten minutes. Slowly I climbed back up on the stool and sat down, which was not at all comfortable now that I had a five inch long, narrow gauge butt plug up my ass. I spread my legs again as Kari turned off the vibroballs and tugged them out of my sex. Both bullets were covered with girl goo and Kari held them up to me with a knowing grin. I sighed and took them, holding them by the wire as if I were a fisherman showing off my catch. I brought them toward my mouth as Kari went digging in my canvas bag. I was in the middle of licking clean the first vibroball when she found what she was looking for and set out everything that she needed. Or that I needed, depending on which interpretation you might favor.
The first item she had withdrawn was a small plastic bottle without a label. It was tightly screwed shut because inside was a homemade concoction I like to call Stinging O. It’s a mixture of grape seed oil, cinnamon oil, and pepper oil, and depending on just how insane you are when you make it, it can tingle and it can burn. It’s also safe to use internally, which topical unguents like Icy Hot are not made for. It does act as a lubricant, but since it also sort of sets you chemically on fire, I don’t actively choose to coat my dildos with it. For those of you who want to experience what it feels like, there is a commercial product which is similar. It’s called “On 4 Her” and I’ve tried it. It’s not as powerful as some batches of my Stinging O, and it’s expensive as hell for a small bottle, and you’ll want to use small amounts, and try it out on a non-genital part of your body first - just to test - but it’s probably a hell of a lot easier to get ahold of instead of making your own batch of Stinging O.
Okay, I just want to say that I was NOT paid any money for that endorsement. But I should be.
But the bottle of Stinging O wasn’t the only thing Kari pulled out of my bag. Next came the rattle and clink of hardware; two sets of clover clamps, unchained and unconnected. All four individual pincers had been altered by another friend of mine - Mike the Hardware Guy - who has a penchant for mechanics. He used a file to literally ridge each and every clamp so that the gripping power was tripled. Clover clamps slipping off with too much weight was now a distant memory.
Each clover clamp was connected to a keychain ring, which in and of itself was connected to a small, one inch spring. At the end of the spring was a quarter pound lead weight, which Mike had picked up at a deep sea fishing tackle shop. At the end of the lead weight Mike had attached a small, steel bell. All in all, the clamps and weights and bells made four separate pieces of jewelry that each extended a full six inches from top to bottom.
Kari also pulled out my butterfly clitoral vibrator. I’d put fresh batteries in it that morning, the plastic, bug shaped toy ready and waiting to be strapped to my loins, set atop my clit, and set to “rumble”. The butterfly only had three settings: off, low, and high, but still - the way my clit was already feeling, the idea of being vibrated there was both delicious and frightening.
By the time Kari had everything lined up and ready to go I was done sucking on the second vibroball, the taste of my own orgasm filling my mouth. I handed her back the spit-shined sex toy and she took it lightly and put it down on the desk next to everything else. She stood up, grabbing the first of the clover clamp/weight/bell arrangements, and stepped close. Her eyes met mine and she stared at me as she pinched the clover clamp open. I tried to steady myself, feeling my heart speed up as I anticipated the pain I was about to feel.
She set the clamp on my left nipple, relatively far back, letting it pinch tight. I groaned, wincing as it closed on the tip of my breast, the fresh burst of pain settling deep. I bent my head downward, my lungs refusing to work as my body responded to the hurt by tensing. I was almost through that process when she set the other clamp behind my piercing on the right breast, and I sucked in a ragged breath through the pain. Both nipples began to throb horribly and the bells rang as I shuddered on the stool. I felt Kari slap my thigh.
“Hey. Keep your legs open, slut.”
I widened my legs again, my stupid shoes once more stuck on the foot bar at the heel. Kari picked up the third clamp and this time she set it on my slick labia. To my shock, it wouldn’t stay, even with the ridges. She tried again, and then a third time. Finally she managed to pinch enough flesh to set the damn thing and I bit my lip, trying not to cry. She did the other side with the last clover clamp, using her previous experience to set it properly on the first go.
I looked at my sex. Low down the fleshy folds of my labia were pinched and pulled earthward, the weights and bells hanging down almost mid-thigh. I felt the pressure but to be honest, it didn’t hurt like my nipples did. The tips of my breasts were throbbing as my heart labored to pump blood into the crushed ends and that made my bosom shake, which made the weights bounce on the springs, which made the bells ring madly.
Kari unsnapped the bottle of Stinging O, and using her brush, dabbed some of the chemical stimulant on my nipples. Suddenly I wasn’t just throbbing, crushed, weighted, and ringing. I was now also chilling, then burning. I actually clapped my hands to my breasts, biting my lip and keening as the sensation overwhelmed me. Kari slapped my thigh again.
“How many times do I have to tell you to keep your legs open? Do I need to fucking tie you to the stool?” she demanded.
Being tied would have been easier. I spread my legs again, scared to wipe the tears from my eyes, lest I get Stinging O in them. Instead I put one hand back down on my leg and trembling from head to toe, opened myself back up. The bells on the lower clamps rang and I felt the jiggling pull of the weights. Kari picked up my vibroballs and painted them with the Stinging O. Then, using just two fingers, she pushed them one at a time into my sex. Of course some of the oil transferred to my labia and it began to burn, which made my hips jerk, which of course set the lead weights bouncing, which caused the bells to ring and the clover clamps to tighten even more. Then Kari set the vibroballs back to low and suddenly the sexual half of the pain/pleasure equation was back at full throttle. The next pump of my hips accompanied a natural tightening of my sex as the vibroballs danced inside me. Had I not already cum twice, I’d have been close to the cliff edge already. Now, I was only half-way up the mountain, plodding upward with heavy, pain filled steps.
“Lean back a little,” Kari said, picking up the brush again and giving it a fresh coating of Stinging O. I leaned back, my legs still obscenely spread wide. Kari placed the brush on my labia and began leaving a coating of Stinging O across both petals, down and over my perineum, and then across to the bottom plug. She swirled the brush around the base of the anal toy and I gasped, the burning worse than anything I’d felt before. This time I had to close up. There was no way I could handle it otherwise. I closed my knees and bent over, folding in half, hurting and burning in so many places.
Kari put down her brush and closed the bottle of Stinging O, putting it back into my bag. She reached behind me and grabbed my clothing, setting it out on the art table. She stood and planted a kiss on the top of my head, which was admittedly the only part of me readily available for kissing since I was curled in a tight ball, my body trying to protect itself.
“When you’re ready, put on your butterfly, get dressed, and go,” she said softly. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The good news was that the pain of the Stinging O was already ebbing. It’s always that first few minutes that’s the worst. Once you get past that your body adjusts. I’ve felt the burn of Stinging O for hours though and I knew that a fresh application would just reignite the fires at the tips of my breasts, inside me, and all along my crotch.
Kari left the room. I stayed where I was another ten minutes, but finally straightened with a gasp, then slid down off the stool. I’d left a major wet smear on the vinyl seat, scented with cinnamon and no doubt caustic if you’d run your finger through it. I decided that it was Kari’s problem and that she could deal with it. I turned my attention back to her art desk and snagged the butterfly off the slightly tilted table. It took me two or three minutes to get it strapped on, mostly because the clover clamps and weights bounced and jiggled and rang constantly, sending little sparks of fresh pain through my nipples and labia. It was just a little annoying too.
I put on my skirt next, buttoning the five buttons up and letting the material wrap around me. I glanced down, which was a mistake since I bent slightly too, which caused the clamps on my tits to swing outward, bouncing madly, ringing with little tinkles as well. But the look did tell me one thing - that you could see the fucking bells hanging off the lower clamps! They literally dangled BELOW the hemline of the skirt! I groaned. Talk about embarrassing! How was anyone supposed to miss the damn bells? As if ringing wasn’t enough! I took a deep breath, just a tad bit frustrated. I was hurting, but with the vibroballs purring inside me, not to mention the quiet pressure of the butterfly against my clit, the pinching bite of the clover clamps, the penetrative thickness of the anal plug; all of it made me horny as well as hurting. But it was the idea of being exposed, of doing what I was doing in public, where inquisitive eyes would see clues as to what I was experiencing, that made it all come together in a sort of sexual wash.
I picked up the camisole, slipped it around my shoulders, and then tried to button it. Yes, you read the right. TRIED. Remember? Kari had bought one too tight? And with the added hardware dangling from my tits, I was only able to get the bottom button closed. On the flip side, it did quiet the stupid bells; no more ringing coming from my breasts.
“Kari!” I called out, just a little frustrated. A moment later my best friend and tormentress stepped back into the art room. She took one look at me and laughed at my predicament. Both breasts were hanging out, totally exposed, the side of the camisole flapping.
“Guess I should have gotten the medium,” she said simply. I gave her a glare in exchange and motioned toward my mashed boobs and the gaping front of the shirt.
“How am I supposed to handle this?” I demanded. I might have been a little more harsh with my words than I would have been had I not been in some constant, low level pain. Doctors like to ask you to rate pain between one and ten, with ten being the worst. I was at a solid four, after coming down from a decent six right after the Stinging O application.
Kari looked at me for half a second, then reached out and unbuttoned the bottom of the shirt. This left both sides gaping open, the flesh from chin to belly button totally exposed. For a moment I thought she meant for me to go like this, but instead she reached into one of the bins on a shelf of her art room and brought out a red leather thong, at least four feet long. To my shock, she started threading it through the bottom button hole, tying it off easily. Then she wrapped it around the button on the far side of the shirt, pulling the flapping sides of the camisole front toward each other. But not together. Let me stress that. There was still three inches of skin showing between one side of the shirt and the other. Kari cut the leather thong with a pair of scissors, then moved up to the next button and hole. Again she threaded the red leather thong through the next button hole and pulled it across to the matching button. On and on she went until Kari tied the thong off at the top.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said stupidly, staring down at my chest. The shirt was pressed tight to my skin, the material stretched as far as it would go. But there was no way it would close and the five pieces of leather stripping held it together, leaving a center stripe of creamy white skin exposed all the way down. This went from borderline slutty to downright whorish.
“I like it,” Kari said with a grin, handing me the scissors. “And now you can just cut the leather and save the shirt.” She paused thoughtfully. “Presuming you fit in it.”
I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath to steady my nerves, but that turned out to be a bad idea because it strained the leather and shirt and when I as done it had loosened. Now the gap was wider, almost four inches, and the inside halves of both breasts were exposed. I shook my head.
“I can’t go out like this!” I said, horrified.
Kari grinned. “You will. You have an assignment to do, don’t you?”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Look at me,” she ordered. I did, looking up at her, tears in my eyes. “Who are you?” She asked.
I swallowed hard. “Breanne Erickson.”
“And what are you?”
“A nympho humiliation pain slut,” I said automatically, repeating the words that I’d been trained to say, accepting them like an oath.
“And what is your purpose?”
“To please others with my sexual suffering.” It was almost a mantra.
“And does it matter if you cum?” Kari asked, her voice hardening.
“Only if it pleases you, Mistress,” I by rote.
“And if I want you to hurt?” She queried.
“Then hurt me please,” I whispered.
“And if I want you humiliated?”
“Humiliate me please,” I begged her.
She stepped closer, our eyes meeting, and our lips only inches from each other. There was a deep sense of pride in Kari’s eyes, as if she had wrought something amazing out of me.
“And if I want to punish you?” she asked, her face getting closer and closer to mine. Our lips touched and so my response was muted and mumbled, spoken through the soft kiss, but it was still understandable.
“Then punish me, please Mistress.”