Once upon a time, a newbie dominant said those words to me while I was in the middle of one of my (frequent) explorations into why my kinks appeal to me the way they do.
I furrowed my eyebrows thoughtfully “I… But… how do you know you’ll get the right kind of sandwich?”
I just couldn’t fathom not caring about the whys, because for me kink was (and is) about nothing but the why’s. The activities are nearly inconsequential, that’s why my Yes/No/Maybe list includes so much more, because what’s happening in my head is whats really getting me off.
Which brings us to my nipples, I hate people playing with my nipples.
I don’t mean the coy “oh Daddy no. Don’t… Stop… Don’t Stop.” kind of hatred. No, more the “Ow, what are you doing to me motherfucker, I will end you” kind of hatred.
Light teasing brushes just feel like inconsequential tickles, like a piece of hair that you can feel but not see. I just want it gone so we can move on with the fun stuff. Pinching and tugging on the other hand elicits a sharp, abrupt sort of pain that captures my attention. Now, I am a masochist, but I much prefer the sting and thud of impact, or the slow build of discomfort that comes with restraint to the sharpness of nipple pain.
My Sir likes my nipples well enough, but what he likes even more is how uncomfortable they make me. He loves to watch me squirm and see me wince. He loves knowing that I’ll take it just because he wants me to, and knowing that he has complete control over me and my body. He loves pushing me just past what I enjoy.
One of the first times that I visited him he ordered me to bring him a set of nipple clamps and, while I considered telling him that every sex shop in NYC was sold out, that didn’t seem very plausible, so I reluctantly picked up a pair of nipple clamps covered in spikes, to appeal to my inner Hot Topic scene boy aesthetic, and tucked them into my suitcase.
Three days later he attached the clamps to my nipples and weaved the chain through the slats on the back of a chair, locking me in place. He suction cupped my favorite toy to the seat, pushed me down onto it, placed my wand against my clit, and stood back to watch me squirm against the chair. Every time I moved, the chain, which was already pulled taut between the chair and me, would tug on the clamps, distracting me from any building arousal and leaving me whimpering in pain and frustration. He made me stay there until I came.
Later that night I laid across his lap talking to him while he absentmindedly played with my (still tender) nipples. He pinched and tugged at them, ignoring how I’d wince and squirm, and pretending not to notice the way I stumbled over my words.
“We should get these pierced.” He said thoughtfully. “That way you’ll always be marked as my boy.”
I balked at the idea at first, nervous about the price and the pain. I’d heard tales of lost sensation, rejections, infections, and a whole host of ways this piercing could go wrong, but the idea of being marked in such a permanent way was irresistible. A few short weeks later I was laying down on my piercer’s table as she pushed the needle through my skin.
One of the few perks of being long distance is that by the time my Sir got his hands on my piercings, we were well past the exorbitantly long healing period. Now, I know I said I hate the pain from my nipples, but that’s not entirely true. In reality, I’m terrified of the pain that I (rationally or not) believe my nipples have the potential to cause. Add piercings to that, and that’s about as scary as nipples can get.
Or at least, that’s what I thought, until my Sir instructed me to pick up a new set of clamps, this time with a third clamp attached, leading down to my clit.
While the clamps were deliciously sadistic, the chain was designed for someone much taller than me1 and offered very little tension unless tugged on, meanwhile the clamps themselves struggled to stay in place on my body. Either they were far enough on me that they were damn near comfortable (which unfortunately, was not what he was going for) or they were to close to the tip of my nipples and clit and would slip off.
In the end he resorted to the simple dexterity of his fingers. He pulled me on top of him so I was laying with my back against his chest and pinched, twisted, and flicked. I could feel him carefully monitoring my reactions, finding all the things that made me the most uncomfortable. He’d make me watch while he slipped his fingers behind the barbell and pulled it away from my body, even when I winced and squealed in fear. Especially when I winced and squealed in fear. All the while holding me tight against him and whispering filthy shit in my ear.
That was one of the hottest things we did all weekend.
How exactly does that work? How is it that the hottest thing is the thing that I hate the most? It’s all about the why’s. It’s all about the fact that he knows how to torture and terrify me. The fact that he has that kind of power and control over me. The fact that he loves to see me squirm. I could give a damn about how my nipples feel, but fuck, is it hot to look down and see that knowing smirk as he catches one between his teeth.
Many thanks to Adam and Eve for partnering with me on this post. For your own nipple clamps (and any other goodies you’ve got your eye on) head over to AdamandEve.com and enter code BEX at checkout to get 50% off one item and Free Shipping on your entire order in the US and Canada (certain exclusions apply, 100% satisfaction guarantee).
- I am 5’3″ [↩]