Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Vol. 9
I climbed up into the bed of my white Ford F-150 pickup truck and sat down on the piece of padded foam I’d tossed in the back before I left home. It was a bright, sunny day and the temperature was just right for being outside. At just above seventy degrees, it was warm enough to get away with summer clothes. Which is what I was wearing. My bare feet were protected from the ground by a meager pair of flip flops, my legs were uncovered, and I was wearing a skirt and halter top and nothing else. As I sat down the blue denim material covering my thighs rode up and had anyone actually been close enough to see, they would have seen my very wet, pink petals peeking out from under my skirt.
Relaxed, at least for the moment, I looked around. Winter wheat stretched as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by the steel and concrete of the freeway a quarter mile away. Cars and trucks rushed by and I could hear the muted roar of their passing. I was as alone as one could be when sitting in the bed of her own pickup truck in the middle of a field, and while I’m sure that I was at least visible to passersby, I knew it would take a sharp-eyed driver to notice that I peeled off my halter top, exposing both breasts. And since I was sitting on a folded towel over the padded foam, I didn’t even bat an eye when I rolled my skirt up as well. I took a deep breath. I could smell cut crass, wet earth, and to be honest, my own juices, which were now liberally leaking out from between my legs.
I pulled the plastic bag out of my bag, which was sitting right beside me, and wondered what it would be like if someone from the road could see me. Would they be entranced? Aroused? Irritated? Disgusted? Would a half-naked, totally exposed redhead girl in the bed of a pickup be a novelty? I grinned. This was the best sort of public exposure. Nude, legs spread, the knowledge that just a stone’s throw away were hundreds of people who would have been able to see me, had they been standing still and paying attention. Inside the small plastic bag was a strange looking root, looking something like a malformed hand. It had six fingers, each tubular and misshapen, as well as a larger “palm” that also seemed more elongated. I plucked a small paring knife from my bag, nothing too sharp and you can put away your fears that I was going to cut myself. I’m excellent with knives and you should know by now that I’m not THAT sort of masochist.
I put my left hand down between my legs, the fingertips slipping through my wet folds delicately, sending shivers of pleasure up through me. It didn’t take me long to find the latex covered string. I slipped my finger through it and then began to pull, groaning lightly as first one, then a second golf-ball sized sphere emerged from my depths. Known in the orient as ben wa balls, here in America they are frequently called “Kegel Balls” a toy that basically consists of two latex covered spheres, in which two smaller weights roll and rattle with every step. I’ve owned a pair for over half my life and while not the sort of toy that will drive you crazy (except for the first few weeks you wear them), they can keep you wet, semi-aroused, and ready for practically anything.
Experimentally I put one to my extended tongue, tasting my own juices. I’ve been told any number of times that a good submissive cleans her own toys. But usually I’m in front of someone doing it. With a sigh I licked each ball, getting most of my own lubrication off the plastic and set them aside. Then I picked up the ginger root, broke off a finger of the Asian vegetable, and began peeling.
Ginger is an interesting plant. Technically, what we think of as the root, is actually what is called a rhizome, or for you non-horticulturalists out there, an underground root. The idea is simple. Rather than just sprouting seeds, each portion of a rhizome can literally become a new plant. Some grasses crow this way, like Bermuda. But other plants do as well, like asparagus and bamboo. So when you get a piece of pickled ginger, you’re actually eating a portion of the stem. Cool huh? This is what you get for reading erotica written by a farmer’s daughter. There. Now I’ve taught you something cool. How about that? Filling our minds as well as our pussies!
The oils in ginger, which are hard to say and even worse to spell, are the sort of fluids that cause all sorts of interesting reactions when used by a human. First of all, they taste good, and if you love sushi you’ve probably tried a piece of the pickled ginger that the itamae, or chef, adds on the side as a palate cleanser. You’re supposed to eat a sliver between each piece of sushi in order to reset your tastebuds. Since most sushi is moderately sweet along with a whole lot of ummani, the acids in the pickled ginger prepare your mouth for a fresh bite. Getting a piece of natural ginger really isn’t that hard. You can pick it up from the local grocery store, though I would recommend staying away from the mega-marts and if you can, find one of those Asian grocery stores. Their ginger will be fresher, and that’s very, very important.
The finger I was peeling was about the thickness of a banana and curved nicely. I peeled away the skin quickly, and once I had a six inch long, slightly curved and tapered piece of ginger, I cut a small grove in the tip, set the knife aside, and laid the finger of ginger right on my clitoris. My little protruding nub fit nicely into that groove and I held it there.
For the first twenty or seconds I felt nothing. But then a soft heat began building and my other hand went up to my exposed breasts and began tweaking, rubbing, and pulling on my nipples. My hips began rolling and when my clit felt very warm, I pulled the ginger root off and slid it deeply into my sex. I thrust it hard with a cry of relief, my hours of arousal finally rewarded as the thick, all natural dildo slid in and out. Again, it took a little while before I finally began feeling the heat of the ginger root, but when I did, it set me off. Bucking like a wild stallion, I slipped downward, legs spread outward, bare feet touching the wheel wells of my truck as I masturbated wildly. Heat and wetness and desire and need combined into a new dish as I stirred myself into orgasmic bliss.
My cries weren’t audible from the freeway, and the rushing noise of traffic would no doubt have made them impossible to hear anyway, but the knowledge that humanity was nearby added its own spice to the mix. In seconds I was exploding like a firecracker. Gasping and twitching, the heat between my legs very noticeable, but not terrible, I worked the juicy ginger root through my petals with abandon, rocking my hips, one hand at my breast, squeezing away. The rush blasted through me and the combination of heat, of movement, of the specter of humiliation did for me what it always has done. Most women have orgasms, but they’re weak, paltry things compared to what I experience. I know, because I’ve had those weak, paltry orgasms. They’re nice. But they aren’t mind blowing. At least, not usually.
Coming down was easy. Ginger roots generally lose their effectiveness over a fifteen to twenty minute time period, so as the heat receded, I tugged the rhizome out from between my legs. Normally I lick my dildos clean like any good slut would, but I shook my head, grimacing. I tossed the used ginger over the side of the truck. It would break down into mulch eventually, or hell, maybe grow. Who knows?
I climbed out of the back of the truck and slipped back into my clothing. Satisfied, still warm, and quite pleased with myself, I couldn’t help wondering how Sarah was doing. I knew that she was having her own fun with ginger, just like me.
As I am not as lucky as you and I don't have a pickup truck, I had to find one first. My boyfriend/Master and I went looking around areas frequented by people with such vehicles; such as hardware stores and near construction areas. After a couple of hours I managed to find a fairly secluded car park not too far from a number of inner city building sites. Sitting in the car I gingerly ;) peeled my ginger root, remarking how unusual it actually is to be sitting in a car peeling ginger in the middle of the day. My Master agreed with me.
Getting out of the car I grabbed a beach towel since the bed of the pick-up truck wasn’t exactly clean. But I admit, I didn’t want to leave a mess in some guy’s truck.
That’s when I learned that wearing high heels is not correct for climbing into the back of a pickup truck. After nearly breaking my neck climbing in, I sat down on my towel, and removed my 8" dildo from my quite wet pussy and started to masturbate with the ginger root. My Master stayed nearby, watching both me and being a lookout for the owner of the truck.
Ginger has an interesting effect for me, with it slowly getting hot and burning its way through my sensitive regions, within 5 minutes I was not sure if it was the thrusting or the heat, but I was quite turned on and getting very horny.
This only led to me furiously pumping the root in and out with greater vigor, ignoring everything around me. I managed to get my orgasm after a few more minutes, and worried about being caught, quickly cleaned up and vacated the vehicle before it's driver came back to it.
Once we got home my Master had his own needs he wanted me to satisfy, and I forgot to tell him that I was still quite gingered, and he was a little "surprised" sliding his cock in and finding it quite hot. Lesson learned, right?
Hope you had a good time with your ginger!
The last time I did the naughty with a baseball bat it was in the equipment room at my college and I can honestly say that the equipment guy, with whom I had seduced into loaning me school equipment, had certainly gotten past third base. Back then, I hadn’t been schooled enough to know the ins and outs of screwing a Louisville Slugger and had done this weird sorta dance as I attempted to impale myself, rather than slide it into home base. Of course eventually I managed, and then the equipment guy got himself a rather spectacular blowjob while I hit a home run. It fit like a glove and I felt like buying peanuts and crackerjacks!
Is that enough baseball puns? I certainly hope so. I know only a little about the game and I think I’ve pretty much exhausted my knowledge without resorting to the internet. Can we move on now?
Last time I wasn’t fiscally stable enough to afford a baseball bat. This time I was too much of a cheapskate. There was no way I was paying thirty bucks for something that I’d probably only use once, would never fit into my toy box, and wasn’t much use to a twenty-something nympho humiliation pain slut beyond the obvious. Okay, sure. I could have bought it for Rachel. But something in my mind just thought that plainly wrong. Here honey. Here is a new toy. Don’t mind the strange scent or the streaks on it. Mommy played with it first.
See what I mean?
Since the other part of the day’s requirement specified a location, it wasn’t like I could go back to my alma mater and make another deal with whatever equipment guy was there. Besides, I’ve heard stories that there is a minor legend in the kinesiology department about some redheaded girl fucking every vaguely dildo shaped piece of sports equipment and screwing the equipment clerk as well, and I’d hate to have to live up to that slightly inflated expectation.
So I struck out for a sports store. Perfect combination of supplies and location, and since Kari, who had set these assignments for both Sarah and I, had said “baseball bat – in a public restroom” I needed a place where I could find both.
I won’t tell you what store, or where, because that would be cheating. Suffice it to say they had a large selection and once again I was presented with too many options. Do I go metal? Wood? All of them were roughly the same shape, and since the last time I had used a baseball bat on myself, this time I decided to go all modern and try something metallic. I plucked one that had the word “assault” emblazoned across the business end because I liked the mental imagery and then made my way through the store toward the restrooms. Since it was pretty early in the morning there weren’t many people there and while a number of employees eyed me, no one really paid me any attention. I looked confident, positive, and since I was wearing shorts, a tee shirt, and some flip flops, it wasn’t like I was a shoplifting risk.
I DID have to sneak into the women’s restroom though. Generally stores don’t like it when you take merchandise in with you. The bathroom was empty and I went straight to the handicap stall, the extra-large one in the back, and leaned the bat against the wall while I got myself ready to play ball. First, I stripped. And when I say I stripped, I mean everything. I know – there was no reason to take off my shirt, but I wanted too. I was horny. I was wet. I wanted to FUCK. There is a mental component to these things and frankly there are times that you just want to be naked. I was bucking at the bit so to speak and tired of sitting on the bench.
Naked and willing, wearing only my flip flops, with my shorts and shirt bundled up and shoved into the metal rail meant to help handicapped people up and out of their wheelchair, I fished a condom out of my shorts pocket and tore it open. Flipping the handle of the bat up, I quickly applied the prophylactic over the end of the bat. It fit easily thanks to the narrow width and then I sat down on the toilet with my legs stretched out, the large end of the bat on the floor, and gently but thoroughly, worked the thinner end of the bat into my hole.
I’ve had any number of strange objects inside me and frankly, the Louisville Slugger wasn’t anything special. It might be able to knock a ball out of the park, but at least from the handle end, it wasn’t exactly a phenomenal dildo. But I don’t blame Louisville Slugger. Not in the least. They make baseball bats. Not dildos. So getting a mediocre review from me is like getting a baseball player to review a new football. “Umm… its the wrong shape, and it doesn’t fit in my glove…”
I worked the handle in and out and despite having fucked more ergonomic items before, the handle still felt very nice. The rounded end rubbed me in the right spots and after four or five minutes of concerted screwing I put my thumb against my clit, rubbed a little bit, and slid into home base with a sigh. Fluids had streamed down the bat, way past the condom, and left pretty little streaks along the shaft. I didn’t exactly care. Instead I tugged the bat out, flipped it around, and put a second condom on the thing, this time stretching it out over the massive, business end of the bat.
Last time I had tried to do this standing and learned something very important. Trying to screw yourself with the business end of a baseball bat while standing up is very difficult. First of all, just getting it in, especially if you are by yourself, is difficult. You can actually stand up and do the thrusting if you want, but still – most women prefer a horizontal position for baseball bat sex. So I laid down. Yes, I was in total view of anyone coming into the bathroom, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. If I was going to do this, it needed to be done. At least I was smart about it and put my head down at the door end, so that even if someone did see me, they would only get a glimpse of my face, shoulders, breasts, and a bit of my ribcage. But still, it was a risk.
The floor was cold, but I ignored it. I had bigger fish to fry and I’m into discomfort. The knowledge that I could get caught any second, along with the thick end of the bat, my soaked and very open slit, all worked in my favor and slowly I began pushing the bat into myself, groaning lightly as my sex was stretched wide. Don’t get me wrong. I’m used to big things. My Core Driller dildo is three inches wide at the base and a relatively decent match for the width of a baseball bat. But it’s tapered. A bat is not. And yes, I’ve screwed soda bottles and wine bottles and beer bottles, but usually I do it from the narrow end, not the bottom. So you can understand why I took it slow and gentle.
When I got about four inches in I began twisting it, which felt incredible, and with each thrust I added a bit of a half-turn, the word “assault,” emblazoned across the side, mostly buried in soft, pink flesh. I pushed deeper, filling myself and getting another two or three inches in. It felt amazing and a few choice thoughts went through my head, like “I think I MAY buy this bat.”
Minutes ticked by and I continued my little masturbation session, gently working myself higher and faster up the hill toward the final inning. The bases were loaded and I was at the plate, tight and ready to slam the ball into the stands. My chest was heaving, one hand on the bat, the other rubbing my clit frantically. The pitcher wound up, eyes narrowed, and threw the ball. I saw it coming. But it was a curve ball.
The door opened and I snapped my head to the side to see tennis shoes, blue jeans, a red polo shirt, blue eyes, and blond hair. She stood there, not moving, the door to the bathroom wide open, frozen in the spot. For what seemed like an hour we stayed like that. Then my brain got the better of me and I rolled to my left, toward the wall, yanked the baseball bat out of my pussy with a squelching groan, and stood up.
I heard the door shut and I quickly put the bat against the wall and scrambled for my clothes. I figured I had about thirty or forty seconds before I was explaining myself to a manager. I had one foot in my shorts when I heard a small voice say, “are you okay? What were you doing?”
The voice I heard had a peculiar tone to it and I stopped, one foot literally half in my shorts. First, the girl was young, barely into her twenties, if that, and she sounded worried, or curious, or both. I bit my lip.
“I’m fine, thank you. I was – uh – just checking on something.” I finished sticking my foot through the shorts.
“Naked? On the floor?” She asked.
You should have seen my expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her tone was accusatory. It was awestruck. I paused, my shorts now half way up my legs. I made a snap decision.
“Yes. Caught me with my panties down. Sorry. I’ll leave. I don’t want any trouble,” I said simply.
The girl was silent. I finished drawing my shorts up. So much for baseball bat fucking. I was supposed to ORGASM and I hadn’t even finished. Damn. I grabbed my shirt and began to pull it down over my head.
“You don’t have to leave,” I heard her whisper.
I took two steps to the door of the stall and opened it. It didn’t even matter that my shirt wasn’t covering my breasts. I opened it and looked at the girl.
My initial impressions were right on. She was about nineteen, cute rather than pretty, with a very round face, big blue eyes, and full lips. Her breasts were small and she was very thin, too thin actually, which made her look slightly childlike. Her eye went to my breasts and to my shock she actually lifted a hand as if she were going to touch me. I didn’t move. But then, right before her fingertips grazed my right nipple, the pierced one with the padlock hanging from it, she blushed crimson and took a step back.
I caught her hand and pulled her into the stall.
Her resistance was only marginal and when the door shut I took both her hands and put them on my breasts. She let out a soft moan, her fingers tightening, squeezing me. I yanked my shirt from around my neck and tossed it away. Then I smiled, reached out, put my hand on the back of her neck, and pulled her face to my chest. In seconds she was licking and sucking the tips of my breasts and I was giving her little encouraging gasps. This went on for a few minutes and then she slipped downward, her fingers sliding along my sides, working their way into my shorts.
I’m not sure when she saw the baseball bat and worked out what I was doing, but it happened and I heard her gasp.
“Were you using THIS?” she asked incredulously.
Well, it was rather obvious. There were condoms still stuck to both ends. I nodded guiltily, still reeling from the feeling of her fingers gliding along my petals.
“What does it feel like?” she asked.
“Full,” I replied. “But amazing.”
She blinked. “Could I – would you – please – can.” The words made no sense, but I understood. I looked at her.
“You’re pretty tiny. Are you sure?” I asked.
Her response was her hands flying to the snap of her jeans and in seconds she was kicking off her shoes and tugging her pants down. I glanced toward the door of the bathroom.
“We won’t be interrupted?” I asked.
“I’m the only girl on staff this morning,” she said simply, pushing down a pair of white panties. Then she peeled off her shirt. She wasn’t much to look at actually. Her breasts were tiny, barely pubescent bumps. Her hips were bony and not wide, and you could see her ribs. She definitely needed to eat more. I told her so.
“You are so thin. You should eat more.”
Her eyes widened but she didn’t say anything thing.
“Are you a virgin?” I asked.
She shook her head. Okay. Good.
“Have you ever had – um – an inanimate object in your pussy?” I asked.
She gave me a guilty smile.
“Okay, right. Well, lay down on your clothes and I’ll help you.”
She did, opening her legs. She was trimmed, with a tiny triangle above the bare petals of her sex. Her legs were long and opening them seemed uniquely erotic. I stripped off the condom on the handle of the bat, and since I had one more in my shorts pocket, got out a fresh condom and began applying it. The girl’s eyes were closed and she didn’t open them until I put the rounded end of the handle against her slit. Moisture glistened on her petals.
“No!” she protested, half sitting up. “The other end!”
I blinked. There was no way a girl her size could take the business end. She wasn’t BIG enough. Now don’t get me wrong. With maybe a few months of practice and a more tapered end, sure I could get something this thick in her. But a baseball bat is blunt, and three inches wide at the TIP. You don’t just shove something like that in someone. Not even me. Not without hurting them.
I bent down. “Look – what’s your name?” I asked.
“Becky,” she said softly.
“Becky. Fucking a baseball bat isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, especially if you aren’t used to it. Trust me, I know. This will hurt if you if we try and you haven’t been doing stuff like this before.”
“Can’t you, you know, just go slow?” Becky pleaded.
God save me from amateurs. I know that the next generation is a little more liberal when it comes to sex, but come on – this is ridiculous!
I sighed and flipped the bat around. This was dumb. No condom, inexperienced girl, huge phallus. I rubbed the edge of the blunt end of the bat against her petals, watching Becky’s juices coat the tip. I’ll grant her this – at least she was turned on. I spun the bat, slowly but surely opening her up. Despite her boniness and her tiny breasts, seeing her legs spread wide, knees turned outward, was actually a turn on and I was starting to envy the bat. I knelt down to get a better angle, not to mention to get close enough to touch, and I reached out with my left hand and gently put my thumb on her clit. She stiffened with a gasp and arched her hips and a portion of the bat actually slipped into her.
But I had been right. She wasn’t used to taking something three inches thick and as I tried to work the rest of the bat into her sex, she began grimacing, the pain of having her sex opened that wide starting to make its mark. I know exactly what she was feeling. I’ve been in that position. It takes years to get comfortable to screw items that large, and while physically possible, you have to work yourself up to it. She hadn’t. And I told her so.
Evidently trying to have a baseball bat shoved up your pussy is sufficient argument because she nodded, looked disappointed, and asked me for the handle end. This I could do. I’d left the condom on the handle, flipped the bat around, and slid it into her with little to no resistance. She let out a wild moan and I knew I had her. She didn’t last five minutes of me working the bat through her sex, my thumb on her clit making circles. She let out a cry that alarmed me, since I thought it loud enough to draw attention, but no one came into the bathroom.
Finally she propped herself up on her stick like elbows, her knobby knees still splayed wide, her innocent face flushed. The bat stuck out from between her legs and she twisted, reaching down with one hand to gently tug it free. She handed the bat back up to me and slowly climbed to her feet. She was wobbly and had to put a hand on the stall wall in order to keep from falling. Her chest was heaving but it seemed like she wasn’t getting enough air.
“Are you okay?” I asked worriedly.
She nodded. “Yeah. Just – a little breathless.” She bent down to her fallen pants which were lying in a heap nearby and extracted an inhaler – the kind that gives medication to asthmatics. Geeze. Or should I say wheeze?
Sorry. That was not nice.
She took a deep breath and then smiled. “I’m fine.”
For a moment we just stood there. I was fully dressed. She was naked. Then she just picked up her clothes and dressed. Not a word. It took less than thirty seconds. Then she was opening the stall door. She paused for half a second, looked back at me and smiled. She ran her fingers through her hair, then walked out, leaving me alone.
I sat down just a little stunned and looked at the bat. I stripped off the condom on the handle and tossed it in the corner of the stall. I looked at the business end of the bat, still coated with her cream, and tentatively, I stuck out my tongue and tasted her. A flood of sensation hit me and I couldn’t help it. I brought the bat down between my legs. The hell with condoms. I slipped the metal “assault” labeled bat into my swollen and incredibly wet pussy, sliding down the wall steadily and slowly until I was lying flat. I twisted the bat with one hand, wishing Becky had stayed to help.
But I came, the image of her fresh in my mind, all long legs and long arms and white skin and then sucking on that inhaler. Oh damn, I SO wanted her! I wanted her alone with me, tied to a bed, with me working bigger and bigger dildos into her sex, making her cum each time. I wanted her out in public with me, wearing vibroballs while I held the controller. I wanted her tangled up in soft bliss with me, my mouth on her tiny breasts, then slipping downward until I could run my lips over her petals. And with that I exploded, wetly, with a soft cry, the business end of that baseball bat shoved a good six or seven inches deep.
When I emerged from the stall I went looking for her. Hell, I even had to ask where she was. Finally I found her in women’s sports clothing, restocking a rack. Her eyes widened when I approached and she blushed crimson all the way down her neck. I loved it. I handed her the bat.
“Do you play baseball?” I asked her with a wicked grin.
Her eyes widened. “Sometimes.”
“I’d love to play with you sometime,” I said softly. “Can I have your number?”
I could see the wheels turning. But then she nodded and said…
Wait. I am NOT giving you the number.
I know baseball is supposed to be a team sport, but sometimes – well – sometimes some games are better played with just two.
Breanne Erickson's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volum 9 is now available from Amazon.com in e-book format!