Diary Of A Pain Slut Week 01

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When Maddi Miller gets caught doing naked self-bondage under an interstate bridge, the police take her to the psych ward of the local hospital. She is released but has to keep a diary as part of her thirty day evaluation and submit it to her therapist at the end of each week.

This is week one that diary. There are five weeks, each more or less stands on its own, but makes more sense if you have read the previous weeks.

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Maddi's Diary, Day One

My full name is Madison Miller, but everybody calls me Maddi. This is day one of my thirty day journal or diary or whatever you want to call it that is a part of my court-ordered counseling and evaluation. Dr. Bergenstein said I have to take time at the end of each day to record my thoughts and feelings about the day. Then every Sunday night I am supposed to log onto a special website and send him what I wrote.

I can add a video message to him if I want to. Or I could even log in every night and do the whole thing into my webcam, but Dr. B said he prefers that I take the time to write it down. He says that taking the time to write it down will cause me to think more about it. He also said that some of the things I write he will bring up in group or, if it is confidential, at our individual sessions. Group is on Fridays, and I meet with Dr. B individually on Mondays and Wednesdays for at least the next thirty days.

I really don't want to do any of this, but it's this or a thirty day in-patient observation at the state psychiatric facility. They think I'm nuts, but I'm not. I'm just a pain slut. That means that I'm sort of addicted to pain. If I were an adrenalin junkie and spent all my time riding roller coasters over at the big amusement park up by the lake, they wouldn't think anything of it. But because my thrill of choice involves pain and sex, they think I am nuts.

Maybe it would be a little different if I were addicted to something destructive like drugs or alcohol or even cigarettes. And I could see their concern if my addiction involved hurting other people– who didn't want to be hurt– or messing with little children or something like that. But the only one hurting is me. And I make sure that I'm not putting myself or anyone else in danger. Well, ok, major danger. A degree of danger is part of the fun, but a lot of things are dangerous. People don't get locked up for skydiving or mountain climbing or being a professional car or motorcycle racer. Those are dangerous too.

This all started last Thursday night when the police found me tied naked between the support pillars of the underpass out on Miller Road where it goes beneath the interstate. Miller Road is a farm to market road that doesn't have an exit, so it just goes under the interstate and eventually winds its way into town. There isn't all that much traffic on that road at night, but one of the dozen or so cars that had passed by must have seen me and called 911. A couple of county mounties showed up all lights and sirens and guns drawn like they were taking down America's number one terrorist, but all they found was me standing there naked. Their first question after they cut me down was "Who did this to you?"

When I said "Nobody," they looked at me really strangely. When they figured out what all my equipment was for, and that I had done this to myself, they wrapped me in a blanket and took me to the psych ward at the hospital up in the city.

I know what I was doing was breaking the law. I know that they could have, and probably should have charged me with public indecency, I was, after all, naked in public. But they didn't do that. They locked me in the back of their car and took me to the looney bin.

That's where Dr. Bergenstein got involved. I'm here for 72 hours. I'm in what they call a "transition ward," which is pretty much like a regular hospital ward except the door at the end of the hallway is locked. They gave me back my laptop and cell phone once they put me in this almost regular room, so it isn't too bad.

When they let me out Monday morning, I will have to come back three times a week for the next thirty days. Dr. B says he can extend that to forty-five days with just his signature and up to six months by calling the judge. Then he added, "So, you better take this seriously and continue with the program when you get home."

Yes, Dr. B, I am taking this very seriously.

BRB

Back

Just texted Dr B to ask if it was OK to share these writings with others. He called me back and answered, "The rules of confidentiality say that I can't share them with anybody. But you can share them with anybody you like. You can even post them on the internet if that's what you want to do."

:-) I told him that's exactly what I am going to do! :-)

Dr. B didn't think I was serious at first, but when he realized that I meant it, he said I should wait until he releases me to post anything and that I really should show everything to him first. He said sharing it with a couple of close friends might be helpful. And I have the right to post whatever I want, wherever I want, whenever I want, but he feels obligated to make sure I know the ramifications of what I will be telling the entire world, including my parents... and the police.

OK, back to my ramblings.

I'm supposed to start out by giving the background story of what brought me to this point. I guess the best place to start would actually be last night.

When they found me last night, I was on a ledge alongside the highway stretched out in a naked X facing away from the road. There used to be a big, steep hill on the old highway, but when they put in the interstate they cut off the hills and filled in the valleys. At the point where Miller Road goes under the interstate, they built it up quite a bit so the bridge above the underpass is pretty far up there.

There is a wide shoulder area on either side of the highway and then a straight up concrete wall about eight feet high. From there, two large, square pillars go up to support each lane of the interstate. Actually, the pillars go all the way to the bottom, but the wall fills in the space between them. Concrete slants upward from the top of the wall to bottom of the roadway at the end of the bridge. On the outside of the underpass, concrete slants downward to road level. With a little determination, it is possible to climb up the slanted concrete and get to the ledge between the pillars. That is what I had done.

There are four pillars on each side of the road, two for each direction of the interstate. The space between the outer two pillars is really wide because there are two lanes up there on the interstate, but the space between the inner two pillars is just the distance between the two bridges, and that is exactly the right size.

That area is also open to the sky above, so being up there is like standing out in the open totally naked. I can see the sky above me and hear the constant zoom of the traffic passing by overhead. As I was standing there, I was wondering what those truckers would think if they could see that far over the railing on the bridge. I was also hoping that they really couldn't see me. I didn't want to cause an accident or anything like that.

The idea to do this came to me last summer when they were repainting the steel on the underside of the bridge. They put a big iron band around the pillars at the very bottom and second one near the top a few feet below the interstate. There were large eyebolt-like rings on each corner of the band. They used those rings to stretch out cables that held huge tarps over the roadway and down between the columns. It was evidently intended to protect any cars that might be driving on the lower road from their sandblasting or spray painting or whatever. When the project was finished, they took down the cables and tarps, but they left the bands... and the rings.

All summer I watched them sandblast and paint that bridge. After they left, those rings called to me all winter as I drove back and forth under that overpass on my way to class at the local community college. The call of those rings got even louder as the weather grew warmer and I was driving to my waitress job in town. Finally, I knew that I had to act.

I have been practicing self-bondage at home for a couple of years and have done some minor almost-public stuff in the park or out on country roads. You would be amazed how isolated it is in the middle of a cornfield in August.

I live with my parents, but my dad is an over-the-road trucker and the company mom works for sends her all over the state to train people how to use their products. She's gone a couple of days every week and all week a lot of the time. So, I have the house to myself most weekdays... and nights, and even occasional weekends.

Over the years I have acquired some really neat equipment including timers and computer controls and padded cuffs and all of that. How a struggling community college student could afford to buy such an extensive collection of toys is a story for a different time. How I got it all set up and learned how to use it properly is very simple. Geek boys will do anything for sex. And I will do almost anything to get a proper pain fix.

Harold, my favorite nerd, isn't too bad in bed. He is my personal techie and the one who put the equipment together for my roadside adventure. He even went out to the overpass earlier in the day and put the ropes through the rings at the top and bottom of the columns and hauled the heavy battery powered come-a-long style winches up onto the ledge. By the time I got there after dark, all I had to do was set up the equipment that was connected to me, connect the ropes to my wrist and ankle restraints, and trigger the program on the computer.

The equipment consisted of the come-a-longs that tightened the ropes, a laptop computer, a couple of tens units, and several light sensors. Harold was my safety. He was supposed to come by just before dawn and take down the ropes and winches. I told him I would give him a blowjob when he brought the equipment back to me. I also told him that if I hadn't gotten free by the time he got there, he could fuck me in the ass right where I stood.

I was pretty sure that I would be able to get free, but if I didn't, it would be worth getting screwed in the ass to see how Harold was able to stand behind me on that thin ledge to do it.

The way it worked was this. Once I was in place, I triggered the program on the computer and it pulled the ropes tight with the winches... and I mean tight. I was stretched out almost like I was on a rack. Then, whenever a car came down the road, it would trigger one of the light sensors and the computer would start the tens units. I had an electrode in my ass, top hat electrodes on my nipples, a clip electrode on my clit, and several patch electrodes up and down my legs and ass and on my stomach. Each pulse from the tens unit corresponded to a very tiny loosening of the winch's pull on the ropes.

The pulses started out in the leg patches and after a certain number of zaps, the stomach patches kicked in and then the tit and ass circuit and finally the clit buzzer went off. The pulses also got a little stronger with each pulse. I had a safety switch in my hand that turned off the shocks if they got too severe. All I had to do was let go of the switch, but it was going to take a thousand or so pulses before the ropes were loose enough for me to get loose. And like I said there really aren't all that many cars on Miller Road at night.

About a dozen cars had passed by. For the first couple, I stopped things shortly after it started zapping my nipples. On the next car, I let it go all the way to hitting me in the clit. I really should have thought more about the fact that the intensity would be way up there before the clit clip kicked in. The first time it activated, I screamed loud enough to be heard even with the ball gag in my mouth and I peed myself. I might have even dirtied myself if I hadn't had a butt plug in my ass that was held in place with a leather strap.

The next time, I was a little more ready for it, but I still yelled. It hurt like mad, but I held that switch down for twenty shocks after it hit my clit. I counted every one of them. It pulses about once every half second, so that was around ten seconds at that level. I think the tens unit actually got to maximum somewhere around the fifteenth shock.

After I finally released the button, I stood there crying and begging the computer to let me go. It couldn't really hear me– well, actually it could. There was a high quality web cam facing me and recording everything so Harold could edit it later. He gets to watch the raw video and then he does his electronic magic and obscures my face and edits it down to the interesting parts. He has a friend who has a friend who runs a porn website and they pay fairly well for good quality "amateur" pain videos. They also pay really well for stuff we do from my "studio," but that is a story for another time.

As I was begging the computer to let me go, my pain buddies arrived. That's what I call the endorphin rush I get from pain in a sexual situation. The situation has to be sexual to begin with or the pain is just pain. But if the situation is sexual– like being tied up naked in public, then the pain brings the E buddies, and the E buddies heighten the sexual feelings which enable me to take more pain which brings more E buddies... well, you get the idea. Under the right circumstances, I can have wonderful orgasms from the pain alone. If you add additional sexual stimulation to that... WOW!

By two in the morning when the police arrived, the ropes on my arms were getting pretty loose and after a car passed by, I wasn't releasing the safety button until I lost my grip on it during the intense orgasm. Had another car or two gone past before the cops got there, I might have been gone. Or then again, I might have just stood up there and waited for one more glorious, pain-induced orgasm.

Oh, oh. That's the lights out chime. We're supposed to go to bed when that comes over the intercoms. I'll have to write more tomorrow.

End of entry for Day One.

Maddi's Diary, Day Two

Have you ever seen the porn classic movie "The Devil in Miss Jones"?

Because she has a totally crappy life, Justine Jones commits suicide and gets sent to hell. Because she had led a basically good, but really lousy life, she is put in Hell's equivalent of a transition unit in one of the upper levels of hell... sorry about that Dr. B, but you said to share my feelings.

Anyway, the Devil offers her a chance to go back to earth for a certain time and really earn her place in hell. She gets to choose from any of the mortal sins and, since it is a porn film, she chooses lust. The rest of the film is her experiencing every type of forbidden sexual pleasure. Then she goes back to hell.

She is put in a room with an unresponsive imbecile who just sits in the corner and stares at the walls. Having tasted the true pleasures of lust, she is incredibly horny. She tries to get herself off, but can't do it by herself. The film ends with her pleading with the catatonic man to fuck her or rub her or do ANYTHING to her, and then with her pleading with the Devil to just allow her to cum. She is now truly in hell.

Care to guess why I am thinking of that story?

There are video cameras EVERYWHERE! And Dr. B explained that uncontrolled masturbation or any self-inflicted pain of any sort would get me an automatic thirty day visit to the state psych facility.

It's not that I need to pop my cork every day. I have gone days or even weeks without even attempting an orgasm. It's that I can't do it. Orgasm is forbidden here!

If Dr. B had said, "You can jill yourself off twenty times a day if you want to," I probably would just play cards with the nuts over in the corner or see what was interesting on the web. But because it is forbidden, my cunt itches like mad and my clit is screaming to be touched. I really want to say "The Hell with it!" and get myself off, but if I get sent downstate for thirty days, I really will end up nuts.

Maybe the forbidden is part of what pulled me into pain, but I don't think so. My fascination with pain sex started a few years back with a couple of nights where I was really lonely and really horny. I was lonely because we live way out in the country and mom and dad were both gone. I was horny because I was a teen-aged girl.

What else is a lonely, horny, 18 year old girl supposed to do out in the middle of nowhere? I took matters into my own hands, so-to-speak. It was supposed to just be some good-old-fashioned self satisfaction, but it wasn't working.

Oh, it felt good. I had several different vibrators of various size and shape, and they all feel good. But I wasn't looking for feeling good. I was looking for that over the top explosion and release.

Geez, I almost sound like a guy there, but it was the truth. I really needed to pop my cork, and jilling off wasn't working. I had downed a couple of glasses of wine to put me in the mood before I started, and my buzzing plastic friend was trying its best, but it wasn't getting me where I needed to be. Then I reached up to stroke my breast.

That doesn't really work either. I guess trying to stroke your own breast is sort of like trying to tickle yourself. Somebody else has to do it. You can't really do it to yourself. I squeezed my left boob lightly and that sort of felt good. Then I pinched my nipple... hard. That worked!

I felt something between my legs when I did that. I pinched again and it was like a strong electric shock went through my clit. I pinched and twisted and the electricity got even stronger. Then I reached up with my other hand and grabbed my other nipple. The electricity grew stronger, but soon it rapidly faded. With both hands on my nipples, there was nothing holding my plastic friend in the right spot. I needed a third hand... or at least I needed something else to hold the vibrator in place or to pinch my nipples.

Driven by need and necessity, I started looking around my bedroom, but there was nothing that looked useful. Then I remembered pictures I had seen on-line of women with clothespins on their breasts and nipples. I hurried downstairs to the laundry room and grabbed my mother's old bag of clothespins that she used to use back when she had to hang up clothes outside. I grabbed a handful of them and scurried back upstairs.

I lay back down on the bed, put one on either side of each nipple, clamping down on the aerole and then pushed my vibrator back into my cunt. I was stroking it slowly in and out and then pulling it out far enough to run it over my clit. This was working. I was getting there. But I wanted more. I reached up and pinched and twisted my left nipple.

"Aieeeee!" I think the neighbors heard me when I screamed. It was unbelievably painful because my nipple was so sensitive, but at the same time, it was unbelievably wonderful. I pinched the right nipple and screamed even louder. This was definitely taking me toward the explosion I was seeking.

I started pumping harder with my vibrator and at the same time reached down onto the bed and picked up another clothespin. This one I put directly on my nipple, just barely clipping it onto the tip so that it clamped down on the most sensitive area.

I wasn't even able to scream. The sensations were overwhelming. It was pain. Oh, it was pain, but it was pleasure at the same time, and behind it all there was... something. I learned later that the "something" was my body pumping endorphins into me from the combination of pain and pleasure. I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that it felt really, really good and was promising to feel even better. I drove my vibrator in and out of my cunt like it was a jackhammer.