Easing out the Kinks, Part Three
Penthouse was grinning that cat that ate the canary smile when we left his apartment. Underneath my coat and sweater, my nipples were clamped and connected by a short chain that was tucked into my bra. I felt it whenever I moved and even when I was still: a nagging sting that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
“You know what little girls do?” He teased, “they skip. Why don’t you just skip to the pizzeria?”
I shot him a glare, but he just laughed.
When he had sat down to lunch, he looked me over and said, “you must be warm. Why don’t you take off your coat?” Under my coat, I was wearing a thin sweater and unlined bra. Literally nothing would be left to the imagination if I were to do that, so I kept it on and huffed while he laughed every time I hesitated before gingerly moving to take another bite of pizza.
Throughout the course of the meal, Penthouse would teasingly tell me to adjust my posture and I would try to hold in a wince as I straightened my back, applying more strain on my nipples. He made excuses to get me to look behind me, causing my sore nipples to rub against the fabric of my clothing.
For as quietly humiliating and excruciating the experience was, I could feel myself growing wet. And though I whined softly on the way back to his apartment about wanting them off, it was impossible to deny that I was enjoying myself despite everything. This detail was perhaps the most humiliating aspect of the entire ordeal.