Damsel in Distress
Our self-sacrificing heroine alway does her best to do the right thing, especially for the men and boys who help her out of her troubles.
DAMSEL IN DISTRESS: MODERN-DAY FOLKTALES;
or, Amusement for Men and Boys,
compiled by MAX BLITZ.
INTRODUCTION: Tiffany’s Troubles, and Her Helpers.
Our self-sacrificing heroine always does her best to do right by others, especially the men and boys who are only too happy to help her out of her difficulties.
Along the way, the gentle click of the mental kaleidoscope shows how her views change as a pair of decrepit old boots wins her affections in “The Godfather and the Goodfellas; or, Beauty and the Boots”, while in “Prince Charming and the Devil’s Thorns; or, Sleeping Beauty” an endangered species of wasps gains her sympathies.
Chapter 1: THE GODFATHER AND THE GOODFELLAS;
or, Beauty and the Boots: Welcome to the Country, City Girl.
Tiffany pulled her car up beside Buford, who was crossing the dusty drive towards his farmhouse. Buford grinned down at her. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
Tiffany smiled back. “I wanted to thank you for seeing to it that I got fed this past year.” She had gotten into some financial difficulties; and Buford had been willing to help her out, for a price.
Buford grinned again. “My pleasure.”
Tiffany laughed. “Yes, I’m sure you enjoyed it a bit more than I did.” She reached for the gift-wrapped package on the passenger’s seat. “I brought you this.”
Surprised, Buford took the package. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting this either.”
“Now that I have some spare cash, I wanted to show you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me.” She hesitated, then asked: “May I come in? I wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure.” Buford headed towards the porch, then stopped to remove his well-worn boots before he entered the house. Tiffany also removed her shoes before she entered the house. Buford liked to keep things clean.
Buford opened his present. It was a pair of fine leather boots. He looked up at Tiffany and grinned.
Again, Tiffany smiled back. She was relieved that he seemed to like his present. Buford was rumored to have a good deal of money stashed away, but Tiffany knew from experience that he didn’t like to spend it. His old boots looked a lot older than Tiffany, who was twenty, and a student at the local college. Buford looked a lot older than Tiffany too; but then, he was a lot older.
He pulled on his new boots and paced up and down the room a few times. They felt good and comfortable. He nodded his approval. “So, what’s your question?”
Tiffany took a deep breath. She had been wanting to ask Buford for a while, but had always been too embarrassed to ask. She shifted uncomfortably, then said: “It’s about your old boots.”
Buford grinned again. Tiffany could feel her face getting hot. It was too late to turn back now. She took another breath. “I wanted to ask you,” she said, “what you were thinking when you were using me to clean the soles of your boots. At least, I think you were using me to clean them.” She paused. Buford didn’t say anything, so she continued: “I have my own ideas about what you were thinking, but I don’t really know, since you never said anything while you were cleaning them.” She paused again. “Anyway, I just wanted to know for sure whether I was right.” Tiffany looked down, unable to meet Buford’s gaze.
“Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking, and then I’ll tell you if you were right,” said Buford quietly.
Tiffany nodded. “Okay.” She paused again to collect her thoughts, then began: “The first time you did it, you caught me completely by surprise. Usually, you ask me whether I’ll do something, and then when I hesitate, you give me an alternative that doesn’t seem much better; but this time you didn’t say anything before you stuck the toe of your boot in my pussy.” Tiffany could hardly believe she had just said that, but she could hardly believe the events of the past year either. It had been an unbelievable year. There was never a dull day at Buford’s chicken farm.
“I didn’t know what to think at the time,” she went on, “but after I got home the ideas just started coming to me. I knew you took good care of your boots, and had seen you clean them with a soft brush and cloth and saddle soap, but I don’t think I had ever seen you clean the soles or the bottom of the heels.
“Anyway, I wondered why you hadn’t asked me how I felt about your wiping the soles off on my pussy, but then it occurred to me that you already knew the answer, or at least thought you did. Actually, it occurred to me that you might have thought about asking me whether I would clean your boots with my mouth, since my lips are soft and supple and would be gentle on your boots, which always look old and almost fragile to me. I thought you knew I would hesitate, and then, as you always do, you would give me an alternative, one that doesn’t seem much better. In this case, you would have pointed out that if I didn’t want to use my mouth to clean your boots, I had another pair of soft, supple lips available for use.
“Given the alternatives, I felt you had decided you knew which one I would choose, and so you just went ahead and used my pussy lips since you felt you already knew that would be my choice.
“The only thing I couldn’t figure out that first night was what I was getting in return. When you had given me chores to do before, I knew what I was getting in return, but this time I wasn’t sure at all. Then I had my physical, and the doctor said that I must have a healthy, thriving microbiome down there, as I had no trace of a yeast infection; and I realized that everything you had stepped in was probably crawling with micro-organisms and that they would be transferred to my pussy lips along with the dirt and the grime from your boots. After my first ‘inoculation’, I was getting a ‘booster shot’ every time you cleaned your boots!
“That made sense, because I know how much you love the environment and hate to waste anything, especially if it’s just going to end up in a landfill somewhere. I thought you probably liked the idea of using my pussy lips instead of a rag to clean the gunk off your boots because the rag would have just ended up in a landfill after you had disposed of it, and then you would have had to use yet another rag every time you cleaned your boots; my pussy lips on the other hand, after I clean the dirt and grit and crud off of them, have the advantage that they can be used to clean your boots again and again and again, and that is definitely better for the environment.
“The only thing that still bothered me was that my pussy lips were often sore after the cleanings, as they were on the day I had my physical since it had taken some hard work to rub the gum you had stepped in a few days before off of your boot. The doctor said my labia minora looked a bit chafed, but she just smiled and told me to tell my boyfriend to ease up a bit.”
Tiffany looked down and smiled mischievously. “I wonder what she would have thought if I had told her that my boyfriend, or maybe I should say ‘my boyfriends’, was a pair of old boots.” She laughed and shook her head. “No, I didn’t tell her that you were using my pussy to clean your boots because the lips are so soft and silky and protect the soles from damage even when you have to apply enough pressure to remove the grit and any stuck-on gunk.”
Boots weren’t made for stepping softly, thought Tiffany; and the idea of Buford trying to tread gently on her pussy with his boots on struck her as absurd: He wasn’t clumsy, exactly; but she would never call him graceful either. Moreover, the thought that her doctor would undoubtedly tell her not to let Buford use his boots on her labia irritated Tiffany, since to her mind he was not guilty of doing so; instead, she thought he was doing just the opposite: She thought Buford was using her labia on his boots. “It’s my pussy lips’ responsibility to protect the soles of your boots from getting chafed, not the other way around!” she exclaimed.
Surprised by her outburst, Buford and Tiffany stared at each other, wide-eyed. Tiffany laughed, a little embarrassed. “Well, am I right?”
Buford smiled. “Yes, you’re right,” he mused. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her otherwise. “The only thing I might add is how it came about that I started cleaning the soles on your twat in the first place.”
He looked out through the window at the barn as he thought back to the time he had first used her nether lips to clean his boots. He began: “I had stepped in something really nasty that day, and at feeding time, I was still in a bad mood thinking about having to clean that crap off, maybe with a stick. Anyway, when I got to the barn with my spittoon, you weren’t ready yet, which didn’t exactly help my mood any, especially since I knew you had already finished cleaning the fresh droppings out of the chicken house and had had plenty of time to get ready. I dumped the contents of the spittoon into the bucket of droppings and picked up a thick rubber hose while I waited until you were in position, head down, ass up. You didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get fed, so I smacked your ass with the hose to let you know that I was getting pretty damned impatient.
“That seemed to get your attention, and you quickly reached back and spread your cheeks. By that time I was in no mood for your pussyfooting around, so I just thrust one end of the hose into that tight bottom of yours, as far as it would go; but as I was shoving it farther and farther in, I caught sight of your pretty pink pussy lips peeking out at me. The sight of those lovely lips had a soothing effect on me, and I worked the rest of the hose in more slowly, until only an inch or so remained in sight.”
Tiffany flinched. Buford’s words had reminded her of the Bufords’ little family reunion: His twin sons normally stayed with their unwed mother, who had retained sole custody; but they had gotten to stay with their father for Take-Your-Sons-to-Work Day. Dad had taken advantage of the opportunity to show the boys a good time.
Buford and Sons had been waiting for Tiffany when she had gotten back to the barn with her bucket of slops. Junior and Junior obviously weren’t going anywhere, so Tiffany had disrobed and knelt at the feet of the Unholy Trinity. She had assumed her usual position, on her knees and facing away from them with her ass high in the air, and had placed her hands on her rear cheeks, awaiting the command “Open sesame!” Upon hearing the boys recite the magic words, Tiffany had parted her cheeks to reveal her hidden rear entrance.
Buford had left her in that position while he explained the coming procedure. Tiffany remembered hearing him say that no more than an inch or so of exposed rubber hose was needed to attach the funnel, so it simply made sense to stow the unneeded length of hose in Tiffany’s backside in order to get it out of the way. Buford had droned on and on until he saw her relax and let her guard down. This was the moment he had been waiting for: Like a shot, he had nailed the bull’s-eye at the center of the target Tiffany had set up for him, causing her to gasp and rock forward as the hard rubber forced its way into her secret entrance.
The Peanut Gallery, when it saw and heard the explosive effects of Buford’s direct hit on his exposed target, had burst into cheers. Better than jeers, thought Tiffany. She realized that, by waiting until he could catch her off her guard, Buford had actually eased the entry of the rude Buttinsky into her back passage; for neither she nor her bottom hole was still tensed up when he had driven his vulcanized point home.
Tiffany had looked incredibly cute with both her front and her rear entrances forming a perfect circle, like the two sides of a holed coin. The opening in her backside, aided by her Godfather wielding his rubber magic wand, was a good deal larger than the one in the front though; since Buford’s conjuring had made the pucker disappear from her tight bunghole and magically reappear on her lips: “Oh!” Given the choice of Heads or Tails, the twins had chosen to record both on their cell phones, as they found both her face and her backside great fun to watch.
As Buford relentlessly plied her backside with more and more hard rubber, Tiffany had found herself sorely wishing she could release her cheeks so she could rub her belly; but she had to continue holding her cheeks open like a book, waiting until she was released from her duty by hearing her taskmasters chortle the command “Shut sesame!” She had therefore tried to keep her moans and groans as soft and low as she could to make sure she could hear the arcane, mystic words. Hypnotism really does work, thought Tiffany.
The stiff hose had burrowed deeper and deeper, eliciting delighted cries of “Wow!” and “Yeah!” and “Awesome!” from the boys, and cries of “Oh!” and “Ah!” from Tiffany as well. Finally, after watching their father stow almost the entire length of unwieldy hose away, the boys had agreed that stowing it away was definitely “a good idea!”
Tiffany closed her eyes and shuddered. Those boys had had some good ideas of their own. It had been her responsibility to reach back and hold the funnel upright so Buford could ladle in the tobacco spit and chicken droppings. In order not to spill any, she had to remain still and keep her head down and her bottom up. Watching her struggle to hold still, the twins had resolved to help her.
Buford’s boys had soon found themselves a pair of beat-up old rat snap traps, after which Tiffany’s teats had soon found themselves carefully rigged with spanking if not new booby traps. After Buford had had Tiffany release the funnel and sit back until the wide end of the funnel was resting on the floor and she was resting on the narrow end, he had had her cup her breasts in her hands and raise them up in sacrificial offering to the twin Tin Gods. The twins had then got to work. Mindful of their fingers, the boys had carefully pulled back and released the wire hammers a good number of times, until the traps had latched on to Tiffany’s nipples correctly and to the boys’ satisfaction.
Although Tiffany had done practically nothing but moan and groan the whole time the boys had been busy doing all of the work of fitting her out with her new gear, her whining had not seemed to annoy the good-natured twins, who had just laughed at her complaints.
Buford had been amused as well and had pulled out his own cell phone to take some pictures of Tiffany in her new trappings: “Say ‘cheese’!”
Once Tiffany had been satisfactorily fitted out, Junior and Junior had drawn the traps down and out until the traps had lain flat on the floor. Next, the boys had anchored the traps in place with a foot and stood up. Having secured Tiffany by her nipples, the twins had managed to restrict her movements appreciably, although her bottom was still describing a small circle. Gratified by the results, the thoughtful boys had then turned their attention to finding more sources of nourishment for the cute “Bottom Feeder”, their pet name for her. . . .
Buford snapped his fingers to wake her from her reverie. Tiffany jumped, her tit tips atingle.
Buford smirked at the sight of her pokies, then went on with his story: “Before I reached for the funnel, I took another look at those enchanting lips. They obviously wanted to play, peeking out at me like that, and suggesting to me that they would be a helluva lot more fun to use than any old stick to clean my boots. I couldn’t argue with that, so I tried to stick the toe of my boot in between them, to part them a little so I could get a better view. When I did that, you squirmed and spread your legs enough for me to get the toe in between them and then press down on them and spread them apart until they lay flat. They had blossomed beautifully, opening up like the petals of a flower. They looked so open and inviting, splayed out like that, and were just begging me to use them.”
Buford smiled at the memory. “I couldn’t resist them; and I figured that, since you had been in no hurry to get fed, there was no reason for me to get in any hurry to feed you either: That rubber hose certainly wasn’t going anywhere.”
No, it certainly wasn’t going anywhere, thought Tiffany, not after Buford’s sleight of hand had made at least a good three feet of that stiff rubber hose disappear somehow into her backside. Tiffany knew from experience that, no matter how much she squirmed, it would remain cozily ensconced there, snug in its burrow. She would have to serve as shelter for the stern intruder lurking in her backside until Buford decided to coax it out of hiding, but until then it wasn’t going anywhere any more than she was going anywhere in that condition. The hard rubber sealed her back door tightly shut while at the same time holding it achingly wide open, open enough for Buford to feed her her largely liquid diet by means of the dark tunnel that ran the length of the hose; but for the time being the feeding, and Tiffany, would just have to wait: Buford had found better things to do.
“As you may recall,” said Buford, “I took an old champagne cork then and plugged the stem into the end of the hose and gave the cap a few good whacks with a mallet to seat the cork firmly in place. You didn’t need anything crawling up your ass in the meantime.”
Tiffany blushed as she recalled how, despite her best efforts to suppress the unladylike sounds, Buford had made her grunt and snort each time he had whacked the cork. He had stopped only when the thick mushroom cap was nestled snugly between her rear cheeks. He had paused then to admire his handiwork, for the mushroom cap and Tiffany’s rear cheeks had dovetailed so nicely together that they hid the ungainly hose from view.
“You looked so beautiful wearing nothing but a tight-fitting cork,” said Buford, with a faraway look in his eyes. His obvious sincerity testified to the truth of his statement.
Flattered, Tiffany smiled. She decided to buy a bottle of champagne when she turned 21. “Now I know how to celebrate my birthday!” she thought out loud.
Buford laughed. “Going to get corked, are you? Sounds like fun.”
“Does that mean ‘hammered’?” asked Tiffany.
“It certainly does,” said Buford. He made a mental note to make some improvements to her birthday surprise, then got back to the matter under foot: “But, to get back to the story: I flipped you over onto your back then, and pressed on your pussy again with my boot. You spread your legs wide in response, and I could see that your pussy lips were still splayed apart, like your legs. I pulled my stool up and sat down.” Buford licked his lips in anticipation of what came next, savoring the memory. “I placed a boot on each lip and pressed down and slowly started working them around, in circles, up and down, from side to side, in different directions.”
He looked at Tiffany. “I was bewitched by those lovely lips. It was enchanting to see them kiss my dirty old boots, and watching them greedily lick and lap the dirt and filth away was wickedly fascinating. They really worked their charms on me.”
Buford paused for a moment. “Fortunately, I managed to break their spell. They had suggested to me that they would be a helluva lot of fun to use; so I made sure to give them their money’s worth, and used them thoroughly.” An impish grin spread across Buford’s face. “Okay, I admit I may have abused them just a little, just to show them I was still in charge in spite of their charms. Of course, they liked the rough treatment, and wet themselves in anticipation of more.
“So I decided to up the ante on them, to really make them pay to play. I wanted to see how they would respond to the higher stakes.” Buford licked his lips again. He continued: “I was pleased by their response. No matter how high I raised the stakes, they never flinched away from the punishing treatment, but remained gamely spread-eagled.
“They made excellent targets, splayed out like that, and let me pummel them, first with one boot heel, then the other, making good contact; but they were obviously just getting their kicks from getting kicked, since they just kept on playfully taunting me, inviting further abuse, by putting themselves on display like that. They did look a bit sore after I put them through the wringer a few times though.” Buford laughed in appreciation of the pleasant memory.
Tiffany looked confused. Despite her painful familiarity with Buford’s games, she wasn’t sure what the “Ringer” was.
Buford intuitively sensed what she was thinking, as he so often did. “The ‘Wringer’,” he said, “now that was a fun game, with one lip caught tightly between the soles of both boots, pulling on the lip, seeing how far it would stretch, before it somehow managed to pull free. I really liked that game.”
Tiffany’s tender nether lips began to ache in empathetic response to Buford’s story. Tiffany began to wonder whether they really did have a mind of their own.
“Anyway,” said Buford, “I really enjoyed playing with your pretty pussy lips, and I definitely got the better of them, which put me in a much better mood by the time I finally got around to feeding you your meal.”
Tiffany looked pensive. Buford wasn’t a bad guy, she thought; he just had some odd ideas. She had placed an ad offering to work for food, and Buford had been the only person who had bothered to respond. She had been very hungry when she had first gone out to his farm to meet him, and he had offered to feed her in exchange for cleaning the chicken house. He had pointed out to the city girl that chicken droppings were quite nutritious and thus could be used for fertilizer; and when she had hesitated, he had pointed out to her that, if she couldn’t stomach the idea of taking them orally, there was always another way for her to take them, since they were already predigested and her stomach was not needed to digest them. She had opted for the second method: She really had been hungry. She wondered whether Buford had been serious when he had given her the choice, or whether he had just been taunting her. He hadn’t seemed surprised when she had accepted. Not that it mattered now.
She looked up at Buford. He always drove a hard bargain with city folk, who he felt looked down on him; and reflecting back on it now, she thought that perhaps she had looked down on him when she had first met him. She certainly didn’t look down on him now. After a year of helping out on his chicken farm in return for chicken “feed”, as he liked to put it, the city girl felt practically in awe of him.
Further, she had always been impressed by the way this backwoods farmer communed with Nature, as if he understood what the hills and lakes were saying to him, and the plants and animals too; and he had just confessed to her that her nether lips spoke to him as well; and she had to admit, a bit ruefully, that when they were so utterly exposed as they were in Buford’s depiction of them, especially in front of a man like Buford, well, they really were just begging to be abused, and even deserved to be, since she could not really fault him for giving in to their entreaties.
Tiffany had come to a decision. She spoke earnestly to the knowing old codger: “Mr. Buford, as you know, I’m no longer so strapped for cash as I was when we first met. I can afford to buy food now, now that I have my own apartment and don’t have to pay the rent on a big house for my three friends who skipped out on me and left me holding the bag like last year; but would it be alright with you if we extended our agreement, and you continued to feed me, in exchange for my continuing to help out with some cleaning?”
Buford took his time in replying, leaving Tiffany in suspense. He realized he could obtain better terms from her now that she had committed herself, making it difficult for her to back out now. He pondered what demands he should make. She was a dance major, so he knew how lithe she was. He thought about this, and then he knew what he wanted. The agreeable thoughts that came to his mind made him smile, much to Tiffany’s relief.
Buford had decided to add two codicils to their agreement: “Yes,” he said, “on two conditions: First, after a boot cleaning, you are to lick your pussy lips clean.” Buford really did like to keep things clean.
“And second,” he continued, “after a feeding, you are to lick your bottom hole clean.” He really did hate to waste anything.
Tiffany groaned. Buford really did like to drive a hard bargain. Still, his requests sounded eminently reasonable, and Tiffany could not think of a good reason to turn them down. She nodded her assent.
Chapter 2: PRINCE CHARMING AND THE DEVIL’S THORNS;
or, Sleeping Beauty: Sweet Dreams.
Tiffany smiled and waved to the boy peering down at her from his bedroom window as she walked from her car to the basement apartment she had rented from his father. She entered the apartment and promptly forgot about the boy. Her thoughts were elsewhere: She was thinking about the new demands Buford had just made of her. She was going to have to perform in front of him, and the thought of doing so made her uncomfortable since she had never done anything like that before. She sighed. If she didn’t want to look awkward in front of him, she was just going to have to practice first.
It was getting late, but she decided to take a quick shower first before going to bed. She undressed, put on her bathrobe, and headed to the shower.
Upstairs, the boy was intently watching his computer screen. Tiffany always left her laptop open and he could see her bedroom through the camera in the laptop. He really liked this gorgeous girl who had just moved into the basement, and he had already gotten lucky and seen her nude a few times. It looked as if he were going to get lucky again tonight.
Downstairs, Tiffany had returned from her shower. She put her bathrobe away and hesitated, debating whether she should just get dressed for bed since she had not planned to go out that night. Another possibility occurred to her: She was already nude; should she practice what she had just agreed to do for Buford? she wondered. She smiled mischievously: Why not? What could it hurt?
The boy watched as Tiffany went to her bed. Fortunately, she had not gotten dressed yet, so he was watching intently. Then she did something that made his jaw drop. She had lain on her back and had then curled up and had somehow gotten her face between her legs. Wow! Was she flexible! He couldn’t see clearly what she was doing, but he thought he had a pretty good idea. He had never seen anything so hot in his life.
To her surprise, Tiffany was enjoying herself much more than she had expected. She continued to pleasure herself with her tongue until she came, then lay back and relaxed. Buford is a genius, she thought. Satisfied with her performance, and overcome with drowsiness, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
The boy paced back and forth in his room. Tiffany was asleep, and better yet, still naked. He had to take the chance. He sneaked downstairs and into Tiffany’s apartment.
The boy quietly entered Tiffany’s room. Fascinated by her bare breasts, he reached out and touched her right nipple, and slowly caressed it with his fingertips, causing it to move in circles like the minute hand of a clock. Emboldened by the girl’s lack of response, the boy leaned over and gently sucked the nipple into his mouth and moved his hand over to her left nipple. He began to tickle the tip of her right nipple with his tongue.
Tiffany moaned softly in response. The boy did not know how to latch on correctly, so her nipple hurt.
Alarmed by the sound, the boy glanced at her face. She was still asleep, her mouth opened by the moan. He calmed down, and turned his attention to her left nipple, drawing it into his mouth between his teeth and causing it to ache as much as her right nipple. She moaned again, again without waking up.
Tiffany was a sound sleeper, the boy realized, but she could still feel the pain in her nipples. He wondered whether she was a sleepwalker. He decided to experiment on her to find out. He whispered in her ear: “Your nipples hurt. Massage them with your fingers to see if that eases the pain.”
To the boy’s delight, the girl slowly moved her hands up to her breasts and squeezed her nipples between thumb and forefinger.
“Oh, no!” whispered the Imp, “there are wasps on your nipples, stinging them. That’s why your nipples hurt; but now you’ve disturbed the wasps. They’re stinging your nipples again, and again, and again. You can’t scare them away; you’ll have to pull them off. Pull them off of your nipples!”
The girl gripped her nipples firmly and pulled hard, trying to get the angry wasps off of her.
“No, that won’t work,” said the boy. “They’ll just keep coming back. You’ll have to kill them to make them stop stinging your nipples. Your nipples are really hurting now, so quick, crush the wasps. They have really hard shells, so you’ll have to squeeze as hard as you can.”
The girl groaned as she pinched her nipples hard, trying to kill the wasps.
“Harder!” urged the boy. “Okay, you’ve killed them, but your nipples are still burning from the stings. The stingers must still be in your nipples. You’ll have to pull them out.”
The groaning girl tugged hard at her nipples, stretching the tender nubs, but to no avail.
“You can’t get them out with your fingers,” the boy told her. “You can’t get a strong-enough grip. You’ll have to use your teeth.”
The girl, in a seeming stupor, released her outstretched nipples.
The boy was nearly beside himself with anticipation. The Imp impatiently egged her on: “Hurry! Your nipples really hurt! Use your teeth to pull the stingers out!”
The girl opened her eyes and looked down at her breasts. The boy panicked for a moment, but calmed down almost at once as he saw that she was focused on her nipples. She sat up and bowed her head and used her hands to guide her breasts up towards her mouth. She bit down first on one nipple and tugged hard at it; then bit down on the other nipple and pulled and twisted it, desperately trying to ease the pain.
“The stingers have barbs, like fish hooks, so you’ll have to yank hard to get them out,” advised the boy.
The girl grunted with the effort as she tugged hard on her nipples, shaking her head back and forth as she did so, jerking her breasts this way and that in her frantic attempts to pull the stings out. The harder she pulled the more the barbs seemed to dig in, holding the stings stubbornly in place; but there was no other way to get them out. She would just have to keep biting harder to get a firmer grip on the stings and to keep yanking harder to break the barbs’ own grip on her nipples.
Back and forth she went, alternately concentrating her efforts on one nipple until the pain became too great, then turning her attention to the other nipple until it, too, just hurt too much. The girl labored doggedly, grunting and groaning with each attempt as she strained to remove the cruel stings that she believed were causing the intense pain in her nipples. Her work ethic impressed the boy, who watched in grateful appreciation of her efforts, which were certainly making him feel better at least, if nothing else.
“Bravo!” said the boy at last, although he was still enjoying the show. “You got the stingers out! You can relax now.”
Her mind addled by the pain in her nipples, Tiffany would have believed anything the boy told her. She collapsed back onto the bed, breathing hard and perspiring visibly from her exertions. Her nipples still ached terribly, but they did feel better now that she had finally managed to pull the stings out. Those stings had really hurt!
When the girl’s breathing had returned nearly to normal, the Imp whispered in her ear again: “Your nipples will still hurt bad for a while, but at least you got the stingers out. There’s only one problem. The wasps you killed are an endangered species. If anyone finds out what you did, you could go to prison for years. You’ll have to hide the evidence.”
The girl groaned in despair.
“There’s no need to worry,” the boy reassured her, “not if you have a large wooden spoon.” To his surprise, the girl got up and walked out of the room. The boy followed her to the door and watched as she headed towards the kitchen. She returned a minute later with an 18-inch wooden spoon.
“Good girl!” said the boy. “Now put the dead wasps in your asshole,” he advised her as he placed several red-hot cinnamon candies in her hand, “No one will ever think to look there.” He paused as the girl took the “wasps” and inserted them into her anus. Her eyes opened wide. Putting the wasps up her bottom seemed to have revived them, as they were angrily stinging her again, her bottom hole burning.
“You’ll have to bury them deep,” said the amused boy. Tiffany looked confused. The boy, surprised at the disconnect in the girl’s thinking, gently suggested: “Use the spoon.” A look of understanding appeared on the girl’s face, but to the boy’s surprise she put the bowl of the spoon to her bunghole. He had expected her to use the handle, but he had to confess that she had had a better idea.
Tiffany grunted as she worked the spoon into her tight bunghole and again as she worked it deep into her derrière until only a few inches of the handle remained in sight. She stopped then and seemed to be awaiting further suggestions. The boy smiled. Taking hold of the handle, he guided her back to the bed. He pulled up on the handle and she quickly scrambled up on the bed but remained on her hands and knees, with her head down.
The boy now told her: “When you wake up in the morning, your nipples will still hurt like hell; but, since the wasps you killed are an endangered species, you’ll feel guilty about killing them; and you’ll feel even more guilty if your nipples get any relief. In other words, you’ll feel better about yourself if your nipples hurt; and the more they hurt, the better you’ll feel. That’s why you’ll refuse to do anything to relieve the pain.”
The girl was slow to respond, so the boy jerked up on the handle again, so that it pointed up at an angle. The girl’s head jerked up as she went down on her elbows, and she quickly nodded her understanding.
Satisfied, the boy got ready to leave. For a moment he considered leaving the spoon where it was, but immediately thought better of it. He didn’t want her waking up to find her ass plugged with the spoon and wondering how it got there. He placed his left hand on her bottom and pulled steadily with his right until the bowl stopped his progress. He paused for a few moments to consider how best to proceed; then shoved the spoon deep again and immediately yanked back on it in order to gain some momentum. The spoon pulled free with both an audible pop as Tiffany’s anus opened wide and shut tight in an instant and an audible gasp as Tiffany’s mouth opened wide at least.
She sighed softly: “Thank you.”
Surprised but pleased, the boy grinned and patted her affectionately on the bottom and said: “Hope you didn’t get any splinters!”
The boy walked to the door and glanced back at the girl. She still seemed to be fast asleep; and if she had actually been awake as he now believed, well, that was even better. Either way, he was going to have a lot of fun playing with her.
Tiffany slowly opened one eye and watched as the door closed quietly behind the boy. She smiled as she thought of how she had fooled him into believing she had been asleep the whole time: He’d be sure to come back now.
In the meantime, Tiffany almost wished her nipples didn’t hurt so much; but, since she thought that having pain-wracked paps was her just reward for having killed those poor wasps, she felt she really had no cause for complaint. If anything, Tiffany felt she deserved to do even more penance for her misdeeds.
She wondered whether the rat traps were still in Buford’s barn. If not, she could surely find some other toys to play with. While Tiffany was considering what toys she might find in the barn, the patches of Devil’s thorn in the vacant lot next door came to mind: She wondered whether the thorns would make good surrogates for wasp stings. There was only one way to find out; and, since it seemed to her to be a just penance, Tiffany determined to carry it out on the following day.
The next day, after the boy’s parents had left the house, Tiffany harvested a few of the hard Devil’s-thorn seed pods. She then spread a large beach towel under the boy’s bedroom window in order to do some topless sunbathing. After she had stripped down to her bikini bottom, she knelt down facing the house. She picked up one of the Devil’s-heads and examined the long spines that represented the Devil’s horns. They filled her with dread.
Dreading what was coming, Tiffany fished some ice out of her drink and applied it to her already painfully erect nipples, hoping to numb them. Instead, the cold just made them hurt even more. Tiffany actually felt relieved at this, as she had felt guilty about using the ice. Fortunately though, by distracting her attention from the thorns, icing her nipples had had the beneficial effect of calming her fears.
She selected two of the most promising burs and carefully snapped off all of the spines except for one on each bur. She next took a bur in each hand; and then, crossing her arms in front of her so that she could more easily mate the burs with her breasts, she touched the tip of the spine in her right hand to the tip of her left breast and the tip of the spine in her left hand to the tip of her right breast. As she was dry, Tiffany had no let-down of milk to lubricate the coming insertions into her milk ducts, but then she had always intended this as a penance anyway.
Tiffany took a deep breath. Not wishing to allow any further negative thinking a chance to discourage her again, she quickly and simultaneously thrust one of the Devil’s thorns as far as it would go into the very center of each tit tip. The stabbing pain brought tears to her eyes and a moan to her lips. She shuddered involuntarily, as if her breasts were trying to shake off the fiendish burs on whose sharp spikes her tortured teats were impaled.
When she had recovered sufficiently from this first stage of her plan, Tiffany just managed to snap off the main body of each bur so that only a tiny stub of thorn remained visible in each nipple. The rest of the thorns remained invisible, still lodged in her milk ducts, tormenting her with impunity, her throbbing nipples too painful to touch.
The groaning girl fell over backwards. The devilish spines embedded in her nipples had given them some backbone, which forced those tender tit tips to remain stiffly at attention. With her lying flat on her back and her nipples standing stiffly straight up, Tiffany’s tits made superb sundials. While she kept track of the time, Tiffany could see the boy grinning down at her from his bedroom window; for this next stage of her plan had left her barely able to move other than to shudder now and again, her tits quivering nicely.
“Now I know how a worm feels,” she moaned, thinking of the grubs in which the parasitoid mind-controlling wasps she had learned about in Entomology class implanted their eggs. She was sure that the wasps last night had mistaken her long hard nipples for their usual prey.
“No, now you know how two worms feel,” she heard the boy snicker from his window, correcting her. Tiffany blushed. He was right, of course. As had happened the night before, he had proved himself to be more astute than she was. Humbled, Tiffany did not feel the least bit superior to the worms she now sympathized and identified with; her turgid teats were painful reminders that she was on the same low level as other such lowly creatures as grubs.
Nevertheless, Tiffany empathized completely with the wasps that had stung her nipples: They had only been doing what came naturally to them, and she could hardly blame them for that. She had no one to blame but herself, for it was she who had bared her breasts and whose nipples had teased and taunted and tempted the wasps, so she sorely felt that she and her sore tit tips fully deserved the rightful punishment so pointedly being inflicted on them. They had earned it, after all.
Tiffany felt fulfilled. She had succeeded in her desire both to punish herself in a manner fitting her crimes and to reward the boy in a manner befitting his helpful advice of the night before. She was now sure he would come back for her repeat performance tonight to watch the tit tug-of-war between her teeth and the Devil’s thorns. He would certainly get a good view of the entertainment, for the thorns were making her nipples stick out like sore thumbs.
Tiffany hoped the boy would enjoy the encore at least as much as he had enjoyed the premiere, for his obvious appreciation of her efforts the night before had given her good moral support and had helped her to keep struggling with the stings even when she thought she might never get them out. Tiffany realized that the boy would of course want to toy with her nipples first (as if they didn’t hurt enough already!); she just hoped that he wouldn’t have so much fun toying with them that he forgot about the main event. . . .
Later, after Tiffany had revived enough to put her top back on before the boy’s parents returned home, the brassiere pressed on her forcibly erect nipples as if they were push buttons, jamming those already aching tit tips straight back into her full breasts. The stubs of the thorns kept catching on the material of her brassiere for good measure.
Back in her apartment, time seemed almost to have stopped. The seconds dragged into minutes, and the minutes into hours. Tiffany looked at the clock again, for perhaps the hundredth time, and groaned. Showtime was still hours away, and she could hardly wait for the spectacle to begin: For some reason, she felt a profound need for the boy’s approval; without it, she could not seem to bring herself to do anything to soothe her complaining nipples. Those thorns really hurt!
#Abuse #BDSM #Voyeur