Diary of a Pain Slut Wee 05

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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 the final week of 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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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Maddi's Diary, Day Twenty-Five, Monday

Dr. B said that he was very pleased see that I was moving forward in my relationship with Shirley. He feels that he can recommend that I be released from treatment. However... There is always a "However..."

The however in this case is that I cannot be released from court-ordered treatment until all "fees, fines and restitution has been fulfilled." And court-ordered therapy does not mean court paid for therapy. I qualified for public defender because I was 18 and a college student, but the hospital stuff was submitted to my dad's insurance and that established my dad as a responsible party for the expenses.

Dr. B tried to sound very sympathetic when he told me, "Normally, that would just be insurance co-payments and a few fines and fees, but in your case, your father's insurance company has rejected the claim because it stems from an illegal act in which you willingly took part."

He further explained, "I can't reduce the fees because your father owns the land in the country plus his truck. They count all that as assets, so your family doesn't qualify for reduced fees."

He cleared his throat nervously and said somewhat apologetically, "And in addition to all of that, the state is charging you for a special inspection of the bridge you tied yourself under."

As stupid as it sounds, the biggest item on the list was that damned bridge inspection. Because I had "attached unauthorized equipment to the physical structure" of the bridge, a special inspector had to be flown in from somewhere with a special crew to do a full inspection of the bridge. I ran ropes through some eyebolts what were already in place on the bridge!! I didn't cut anything, weld anything, or even clamp anything. I didn't hit it with a truck, a car, or even my fists. I just ran some damn rope through a ring on the bridge.

Evidently there is some weird-ass federal law that got written after a bridge collapsed up in Minnesota somewhere that requires this kind of inspection whenever there is "unauthorized or uncertified work or attachment on or to a bridge." The bill for the inspection is $45,000 dollars!

The fines are almost nothing. My plea agreement includes a fine for public indecency. The criminal charge will be expunged from my record when I satisfactorily complete therapy. I still have to pay the $1,500 dollar fine plus $1,000 in court costs.

The in-patient stay at the looney bin was $14,000 and my 15 sessions with Dr. B cost $1,100 each for a total for treatment of $30,500. If I had insurance, those sessions would automatically be reduced to the negotiated amount of $600, but since I don't have insurance– or it isn't paying, I get stuck with the full, inflated charge.

It is one bullshit thing after another, but it all boils down to the fact that I have to come up with $78,000 by next Monday or go to jail...or worse, go into the state psychiatric facility downstate.

"Actually," Dr B said, "the easiest thing to do would be to extend treatment. I can do that for a few weeks and recommend that it be extended on a month by month basis for up to six months. That would keep you out of jail or the state facility, but it would also continue to cost you $3,300 a week."

He shrugged his shoulders. I think he was honestly sorry for me. "I know it's a real catch-22. You can't get out of treatment unless you pay for treatment, but if you don't get out of treatment, the bills keep going up."

He shook his head. "There really isn't anything I can do. Maybe you can borrow the money from somewhere or your parents can help you out."

"I'll see what I can arrange," I told him, but I didn't have much hope. They think Dad has all sorts of "assets," but he cracked a block on his truck out in Denver a few months back and the cost of those repairs, plus the downtime, emptied his bank accounts. He had to re-finance the truck to come up with the necessary money to replace the engine and get back on the road. There just isn't any spare cash in the Miller family right now and I think the mortgage on the land is as high as it can be already. I will have to come up with something on my own.

Dad's on an extended run and won't be back until Sunday. Mom is gone on a week-long training trip and may have to work Saturday also. So I am on my own this week and most of this weekend. This isn't something I want to talk to them about on the phone, so it will have to wait until Sunday. Maybe I can figure something out before then.

Work was a blur this afternoon and evening. I was really distracted, but at least I didn't drop any trays.

End of entry for Day Twenty-Five

Maddi's Diary, Day Five, Twenty-Six, Tuesday

I called Harold first thing this morning and asked him how much money I actually had in my Beat Girl account. He said I had $51,000 that I could draw out. Jesus! I'm really glad I didn't know I had that much. I might have blown it all on some really expensive sex toys.

Just kidding, Dr. B. I have enough really expensive sex toys in my studio that are already paid for out of the Beat Girl profits. I probably should sit down with Harold some day and find out how much I, and he, am actually making on Beat Girl.

Harold told me that normally he could advance me quite a bit toward future earnings, but right now he was in the middle of a big business deal and most of his money was tied up. He could loan me $5,000 from his personal savings, but that was all he could come up with on short notice.

I told him I would keep the $5,000 in mind, but to transfer the $51 K into my checking account immediately.

As soon as I hung up from talking to Harold, I called Shirley. I cried on the phone with her for about a half hour, but then I had to get to work. I was crying most of the day, but I got all the orders right and didn't spill any hot coffee on anyone.

The Beat Girl session was TERRIBLE! I should have had Harold cancel the session and put on a rerun. We do that once in a while when Beat Girl is "on vacation." But those are always announced in advance, and I didn't want to disappoint my fans.

I disappointed them anyway– at least most of them. It was a spank and paddle night which usually brings out my E buddies, but I was so down that they stayed home. Anyone who was hoping to see me go into a pain-induced orgasm was very disappointed. On the other hand, anyone who wanted to hear me scream in pain really got their money's worth.

I probably should have dropped the safety switch when I realized that the endorphins weren't going to kick in at all, but then I decided that maybe my body was telling me that I needed the true punishment with no help from my E buddies. I had, after all, gotten myself into this by "an illegal act in which I willingly took part."

Everything hurt like hell, and I kicked and screamed and thrashed like I never had before. If this was how "normal" people experience this kind of pain, I understand why they think I am weird. There is no way that I would do this regularly if it actually hurt that much with no corresponding reward and release.

As soon as the session was over, I shut down the studio and limped back up to the house barefoot and naked. I probably would have done that anyway– walked back up to the house barefoot and naked, but I wouldn't have felt like a whipped dog slinking back to its kennel while I did it.

I had barely gotten back into the house when my phone rang. It was Shirley.

She didn't even say "Hello," but instead started off with, "I know how we can raise the money."

"I don't want to borrow from your parents," I answered.

"Can't do that anyway," she replied. "I talked to them this morning. It would directly involve them in a criminal proceeding in which they did not have a direct relationship, and that could taint their credibility in other cases."

She gave a short snort that was somewhere between a laugh and a chuckle. "That's my Dad's lawyer talk for why he can't do it. But I have another idea."

"What?" I asked.

"We do a live performance of Beat Girl!" she bubbled excitedly.

"Wait a minute, Mickey Rooney," I answered, "this is not a 'Let's Put on a Show' movie. It doesn't work that way in real life."

"Yes it does," she replied. "I already checked with The Grease Pit. We can rent the place for an after hours show for only $1,000. They are licensed to seat up to 250 people. If we charge $125 a ticket, and sell out, we can clear over $30,000. Even if we only have an 80% house, we still clear $25,000."

"But Beat Girl doesn't have a road show," I protested, "And it would be really hard to set up all this equipment somewhere."

"The only equipment you will need," she insisted, "is your cape and mask and that weird chair you showed me in the studio. I can get anything else we need. We advertise the show as a live performance of Beat Girl and Nubbin, with special guest, Beat Cat."

She paused to let that sink in and then continued, "I really wanted to use Catwoman, but Dad said that would trigger a copyright bot if it appeared on the website. He's not sure how you have gotten away with Beat Girl for so long."

"I'm not sure about all ths," I said. "Who do we get to be Beat Cat and Nubbin?"

"I will be Beat Cat," she said. "I have a full body cat suit that will drive them wild. As far as Nubbin, have you ever seen Vicki naked?"

"Not since the sixth grade," I replied.

"Vicki is endowed," Shirley continued, "with a clit that is bigger than some men's pricks. When she gets turned on it sticks out of her almost two inches. And I haven't collected from her on that bet yet, so she has to do it.

"Get Harold to put something on a special page of the website that says that Beat Girl and Nubbin will be appearing live this weekend. That way people can check the website to be sure that this is the real deal. We put up posters at the Pit and a couple of other bars in town and see what happens."

I agreed and Shirley said she would talk to the owners at the Pit and set things up. She was also going to take care of getting the tickets and the publicity ready.

I was feeling a little better when I finally went to bed, but my ass and legs and back still really hurt. With my E buddies on strike, I didn't even feel like jilling off before going to sleep. I just took some pain pills and slept on my stomach.

End of entry for Day Twenty-Six

Maddi's Diary, Day Twenty-Seven, Wednesday

I explained to Dr. B what Shirley and I were planning to do. He advised me to pay the bill from the state first since it would take the longest to clear. We really didn't talk about much else during our session. He more or less let me vent about how unfair this all was. All I did was stand up on a ledge naked and it was practically ruining my life.

"But you finally connected with Shirley because of it," he said in his helpful therapist way.

"Yes, there is that," I conceded.

Then he asked, "If that was the only good to come out of all of this, would you do it again?"

"Damned straight!" I answered. The answer surprised me for several reasons. One, that is one of my father's expressions and I have never used it before in my life. And two, I was practically shouting as I said it.

Dr. B just laughed and said, "See you Friday."

I checked with Shirley before I went to work and she said everything was set up with the Pit. Tommy, the bartender, will get 5% for handling the ticket sales. That cuts some from the profits, but it is a necessary expense. She also told me that she was hiring four of the security men from the club at $250 each for the night... "just in case."

"In case of what?" I asked.

"Two of them are going to be wandering the crowd keeping things peaceful. The other two are going to be standing up front making sure that nobody gets over-excited and rushes the stage."

I hadn't thought about that. Men can kind of lose it sometimes when things get hot on a live stage. The real reason that strip clubs started using brass poles was to keep strippers from being pulled off the stage by lust-crazed customers. The pole gave them something to hang on to. The fact that dancing around that pole can be erotic as hell, was just an accidental side benefit.

Work was OK. My mind was a lot clearer. I was even able to smile and be chipper as I waited on customers. That makes a big difference. My tips went back up to their normal level.

End of entry for Day Twenty-Seven

Maddi's Diary, Day Twenty-Eight, Thursday

I didn't realize that my E buddies could arrive so late. I was feeling a LOT better, and I woke up REALLY horny, so I dug out my jack rabbit and my stash of clothes pins. There are a lot of different pain devices on the market, but nothing really does it for me like a good ol' wooden clothespin. And it is so quick and simple to set up.

I got the jack rabbit out of my toy drawer and made sure it had good batteries in it. It wouldn't do for the bouncing bunny to die on me in mid-stroke. Then I dug out the clothes pins. I've got a full bag of them now, but I have found that the nine cross does everything that I want and need to be done.

I warmed myself up with the rabbit and once things were flowing, I started putting the clothes pins on my breasts. The four that are vertical are harder to put on, so I put those on first. One is just above and another just below my nipple. Then two more are right at the edge of where the aerole color starts to fade out. I don't know why, but that boundary is more sensitive than the surrounding skin.

After I have the vertical pins in place, I do the horizontal ones. Again there are two right next to my nipples. These are a little harder to put in place because my skin is already stretched a little by the pinching of the vertical pins. The ones on the aerole boundary go on easily. I guess there is more skin to work with out that far from the nipple.

The last thing I do is put the "tip clip" in place. It is sort of a delicate balance between getting it far enough out on the nipple so that it is actually squeezing the very tip where it is most sensitive and having it clipped far enough back so that it won't fall off as I move around.

Once everything is in place, I kneel facing the headboard of my bed. The cluster of clips on each tit is tied together by a cord that threads through the center of their springs. I tie one cord to the bedpost on one side of the headboard, and then tie the other string to the other post. I scooch back until the strings are just beginning to get tight, then I start working the jack rabbit.

If I close my eyes and rock forward and back slightly, I can imagine that someone– today it was Shirley, is pulling at my breasts and nipples as they work their hands on my cunt and clit. I sometimes imagine that it is Randy fucking me as I stand before him. Today, for some reason, I imagined Shirley with a big, vibrating strap-on.

I had never thought about that before. I wonder if she has one? That is something we will have to explore if I can ever get out of therapy.

In any case, I was just starting to get really juicy when suddenly I could feel a flood of my E buddies coming to join me. I expected some of them to arrive. I did, after all, have the clips in place on the very tips of my nipples. But this was way more than I needed to go from pain to pleasure pain. The only thing I could figure was they were from the Beat Girl session, but had somehow been delayed.

With the pain buddies who had stayed away during the Beat Girl session finally arriving, I was in a self-induced narcotic rush that put me in nirvana. I pumped furiously with the jack rabbit and wobbled back and forward so that the strings would pull at the clips. I was grunting and screaming like mad. It is a good thing that we live way out in the country or the neighbors might be calling the police to say that someone was being murdered.

Then I popped. As soon as I felt it start, I fell backward on the bed. The strings went tight and pulled all of the clothespins off my breasts all at once. That completed the blast off.

With my legs doubled over and my butt between my feet, I was splayed open at an obscene angle as I rammed the jack rabbit home one last time and lost control. My arms were in the air above me shaking like I was having a fit. My legs were trying to flail, but they were trapped beneath me on the bed. I screamed and thrashed so hard that I felt the jack rabbit slip out of me and squirt onto the bed between my knees. My hands came down on their own and attacked my cunt as I grunted and groaned and screamed in the throes of a fantastic orgasm.

When it was all over, I lay there panting and trying to regain control of my mind and body. I turned slightly onto each side and straightened my legs. I was so close to the headboard that I couldn't straighten them out, so instead I put my feet on wall above my headboard and lay there with my cunt dripping onto the sheets. I must have stayed like that for ten or fifteen minutes, or maybe even longer than that. Finally I got up out of the bed and went into the bathroom.

I smelled really heavily of sex and really, really needed a shower, but I decided that my sheets would have first crack at the water heater and stripped my bed and took the sheets down to the laundry room. I had just put them in the wash machine when there was a knock at the door.

It was Harold. I pulled on a robe and asked him to come into the kitchen. He looked really strange and he was having trouble meeting my eyes.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

He looked all over the kitchen and then finally back at me as he said, "I can't lie to you anymore. There is no friend of a friend of a friend."

"What?!" I asked in surprise.

"I own the website," he blurted out. "I own all of them. I'm worth a lot of money and I really, really want to help you and would if I could, but honestly and truly, I am in the middle of a deal to buy out two of my competitors and I don't have any ready cash."

He looked up at me through his always dirty, thick glasses. "If you need to raise more money with this live performance, though," he said, "I can set things up to stream it live on a pay-per-view basis and give you all the proceeds over expenses."