nipple clamps

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Easing out the Kinks, Part Four

In the staircase of his apartment, a place that Penthouse promised was seldom used, he had me unzip my coat and lift up my sweater.

Carefully, he removed the clamps from my nipples one by one. When the first one came off, I barely stifled a scream. I don’t usually wear clamps for an extended time and though there was a somewhat pleasurable aspect of the feeling of the blood rushing back into them, I’m not as much of a masochist as I am a submissive.

He placed them into his pocket and sat down on the stairs. Pulling me into his lap, he stroked my hair and told me that he was proud of me. Once I had my composure back, he pulled me up to my feet and made me perform the endlessly humiliating task of grinding on his knee.

I knew I was wet, but I wasn’t aware of just how aroused I was until I was doing that, hoping nobody decided to forego the elevator and use the stairs. My cheeks were flushed when he asked me if I wanted him to use my pussy. I nodded a little too eagerly.

“Hm,” Penthouse looked me over and smirked. His hands lowered to my hips and he bucked me a bit harder against his thigh. “I think you’re too little for that, sweetheart.”

I pouted and tried to turn away from his grin, attempted to keep my head off of how badly I wanted him, and focused on the sound of the opened belt of my coat, clanging against the stone steps of the emergency stairwell.

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Easing out the Kinks, Part Two

When we reached his apartment, Penthouse and I hung around a little bit and caught up. Eventually, we wound up in his bedroom, curled up on his bed with him trying to make me take a nap.

Which, ah, as you may recall, I don’t usually respond well to.

But I hadn’t had a good sleep the night before and Penthouse had a really comfortable bed. Not to mention he held me down and teased my pussy until I promised to take a nap with him.

So, I managed to successfully nap. Except, then I was super cozy and didn’t want to get out of bed. Somehow, even when I’m obedient, I’m still a brat.

Penthouse had brought his knife home and took it out. He teased it over me while I insisted we stay in bed, which quickly turned into whines and pleas for nothing in particular as goosebumps started to rise on my skin.

“Come on,” he said finally and rose to his feet. “Let’s get lunch.” He walked to his dresser and pulled out a pair of nipple clamps. “Come here.”

I stared at him, incredulous, but walked over nonetheless.

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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.

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It can be so hard sometimes just to focus on your own thoughts. It’s in these moments of quiet contemplation and enforced solitude, of a self-awareness brought on by the presence of foreign sensation, that the amount of stimulus that exists surprisingly can drive you into a moment with yourself and your thoughts.

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Confession: My nipples aren’t horribly sensitive to light touch, but when pressure comes into play it’s an entirely different story. I’m usually entirely too sensitive for most clamps/clothespins/etc. I have a pair that work the way the ones in this picture do, so they can be adjusted, but I’m still a huge wuss about the whole thing.