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She curses as she puts another one on—her twelfth, and that’s just on her left tit. Three run down the left side, low, sticking almost straight over her armpit. Three stick at an angle over her right breast. Three more go along the underside of her ample tit, angled up over her rib cage, and she’s just applied the third of the three that stick up from the top, pointing at her chin.
The D-rings of her leather wrist restraints rattle as she moves her hands. It’s awkward with them on, but she loves the way they look. More importantly, she loves the way they feel.
The D-rings snag against one of the clothespins. She yelps and jerks. She sees her laptop sway back and forth. She’s half afraid she’s going to kick it over, but it stabilizes.
She takes three more clothespins from the box by her bed. She puts them on between wriggles and moans and soft, shallow sobs. One to the inside, one to the outside, and then—both tits heaving from her great ragged breaths of pain—she whimpers and moans as she puts on the last one, right in the center, sticking out straight and screamingly painful.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck,” she says, shaking her head to clear the pain. It undulates through her body, making her arch her back and prop herself up on her left hand. It makes her grind back and forth, rubbing her panty-clad ass against her dirty sheets in a vain attempt to sooth herself, to distract herself from the agonizing pain in her tits.
What distracts her far more than the sensuous feel of her ass against the sheets is the tight embrace of the heavy padded restraints on her ankles. They’re secured by spring clips and chains to the metal frame of her full-size bed. They rattle a little when she squirms, which is why she wishes she could play music. But she can’t, or she wouldn’t be able to hear the sound from her laptop, which is propped on a pillow between her forced-apart knees.
She looks at the screen. She moans. She says, “Oh, fuck, that hurts. That fucking hurts.”
She just keeps saying it and looking at the screen as the pain rumbles through her body. She breathes deep and hard and pulls at the tightness of her ankle restraints. She runs her hand up her neck and feels the thick leather collar with its heavy silver D-ring and the silver chain leash tossed over her shoulder. She tugs at it.
So what if it hurts, slut, someone says in her mind. You like it. You know you fucking like it.
She sees a hand reaching for a cock. She smiles and slaps her face. A hand grips a cock firmly. It doesn’t move. She slaps her face again, harder this time, and makes a pathetic whining noise. She pulls at her leash, runs her hand over her collar, slaps her face even harder, pulls at her collar and the leash.
The hand moves faster. She smiles.
Fifteen clothespins radiate out from her upthrust left breast, like a porcupine’s quills, only she’s not sure if she’s the porcupine or the victim. The clothespins bite into her flesh; she can barely take it. A wave of sensation crashes through her body and she almost loses it. She panics, gasps, sobs, reaches for the one in her nipple to pluck it away; it’s more than she can stand. Her fingers stop before she removes it. Her fingertips almost touch the clothespin—almost, but not quite. She leaves it there, shivering for an instant as she waits to see if she can handle it. Then she breathes out long and slow and leaves the clothespin where it is.
Her fingers tremble as she reaches for more.
She takes three more clothespins from the box beside her bed; one goes on her right breast, down on the tender part where the push-up bra lifts it up tight. She pinches to get purchase, moans softly as she centers the pin. She leaves it and adds another alongside it. She’s less symmetrical now, not caring where they go, exactly—just that they get placed. She picks up speed. She has to cross-reach over her upper belly to pinch her right tit properly; she dislodges one of the clothespins and shrieks. She curses herself for the noise she made; she’s got motherfucking roommates. Quiet, bitch. Don’t make a sound, someone says in her mind. She shoves her hand down into the black mesh panties and rubs herself. She thrills to the smooth feeling. Nice and smooth, bitch...you shave your cunt. What are you, a hooker? A porn star?
In fact, she isn’t a hooker, and she’s probably not a porn star. But when she looks down to the screen of her laptop, she sees a hand moving faster on a cock, and she likes that. She likes that a lot.
In her mind, someone sneers, You’re making him jack it, slut. A stranger’s jacking off to you hurting yourself, and you like it. What a sick perverted cunt you are. You should just charge him a flat rate and have someone pack you up and ship you to this asshole to live as his sex slave. He’d probably hurt you all the time, then; would you like that? You wouldn’t have to hurt yourself, then...would that be more or less perverted?
She grunts as she puts on a fourth, fifth, sixth clothespin. Her breasts heave harder and deeper as she breathes deeper and with greater urgency. She has to remind herself not to hyperventilate. Soon only her right nipple is free.
On the screen of her laptop, the hand has stopped moving on the cock; now it’s tugging at a swollen pair of balls hanging out of a set of boxers. He’s trying to make himself last, she thinks, and someone says loud in her brain. He’s trying to get his money’s worth. He paid for thirty. He doesn’t want to cum yet. Do you want him to cum so you don’t have to do this anymore? Or do you want him to watch?
She moves fast to put the three clothespins on her nipples; she’s starting to fly from the pain, feeling suddenly hungry for it.
She looks at her laptop. The hand is pulling at balls. She grabs her collar, pulls, slaps her face three times in quick, rapid strokes.
The hand goes back to the cock. She watches as he pumps furiously—then stops. His fingers go back to his balls. She feels a rush of excitement.
She fumbles the ball gag out of the box by her bed. Did she wash it after the last time? She doesn’t care. It tastes rubbery, dusty. It’s awkward trying to move around with the D-rings of her wrist restraints dangling against the clothespins. She can barely move. If she wasn’t propped up on pillows, she wouldn’t even be able to see her laptop behind the irregular curtain of clothespins. Then she wouldn’t know that when she shoves the ball gag in her mouth, the hand starts pumping cock hard and fast again.
It doesn’t last long; maybe three strokes, then he’s furiously back to his balls, pulling them down. Why do some guys do that? she wonders. Does it really make them last?
You want him to last, slut. You want him here with you when you cum. What good is a nice hard cum if you don’t get paid for it?
Awkwardly, she buckles the black leather strap of the ball gag behind her head. She dislodges two clothespins as she does it; pain surges through the distended flesh where they left deep impressions. She howls in pain. She likes the way the ball gag makes it sound; screw the roommates.
She squirms back and forth, rattling the chains that lead from her ankles to the cheap metal bed rail. She brings her left hand down alongside her bondage belt and awkwardly works the spring clip until her wrist restraint is tightly secured to the belt. She does the same with her right wrist—but not before she does something else.
She’s got the vibrator ready, next to the bed. All she’s got to do is tug on the cord and it comes up easy. She spreads her thighs as wide as she can. The vibrator is one of those long models—the kind with a big broad head and a long handle.
She shoves it down into her panties and turns it on.
She presses her thighs together to trap it. She moans into the ball gag; her back arches; she throws her head back and shakes from side to side. The whole bed rumbles in response. When she sits up again, her laptop is tipping awkwardly back and forth, almost falling off the pillow. But the hand is pumping furiously, and she gives it a big wet look from her big wet eyes and starts fucking her hips against the vibrator.
She stops moving her hips, pushes her thighs more tightly together and lets go of the handle. She twists her hand around and works the spring clip to the D-ring of the belt. She reaches up again, flailing with her fingers, and grabs the handle of the vibrator again. She pulls at the belt with both her wrists— the left so it looks like she’s struggling; the right so she can open her legs and push the vibe down deep and fuck herself against it.
