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Subject: {ASSM} Nipple Play {Maureen Lycaon} (F/M, femdom, bd, pain)
Date: Sun, 15 Oct 2000 16:10:04 -0400
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A LITTLE NIPPLE PLAY

@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, September 2000. All rights reserved 
under the Bourne Convention. Permission granted to make one hard 
copy for personal use.


AUTHOR'S NOTES:
You know the drill -- if it's illegal for you to read this, 
don't; all resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental 
and unintentional; not intended as a guide to safe sexual 
practices; etc., etc.

"Spitz" is the name of a dog in a Jack London novel, and it is 
also a breed of dog. As for why this character is named after a 
dog, that's a long story that isn't relevant here.

This began as a sexual fantasy, but turned into a story that took 
on a life of its own quite apart from what aroused me. I'm not 
into piss-play; I had doubts about including that part, but I 
have chosen to write the story down in exactly the form it took 
in my mind.

I crave feedback. Address it all to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . 
Plus, you can visit my erotica Website at:
http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/

 


A LITTLE NIPPLE PLAY



"Good dinner?" I asked Spitz.

"That it surely was. Thanks." Even in those few words, I could 
hear the precious Scottish burr in his voice.

He leaned back against the sofa, let his head loll back against 
the top and closed his eyes with a happy sigh as I stroked his 
long, wavy golden hair. He seemed to know it was his place, as my 
victim, to be cared for and cosseted.

I ran a hand down his chest, feeling his right nipple through the 
thin white silk of the stage shirt he wore - he's one of those 
rare men who can wear effeminate clothing and not look any less 
masculine.

"You'd better not be sluggish."

He chuckled softly. "Not a chance, woman." 

"Good. Ready?"

He opened his brown eyes. Tension flowed back into his muscles, 
but he never hesitated. "As ready as I'll ever be."



My playroom at that time wasn't large. A basement room, it held 
just a small but comfortable bed, a chair, a cabinet for the 
toys, and a leather-padded post with shackles. The walls were 
brick-patterned paneling, the floor cement. There were a couple 
of brass candle sconces holding fat pillar candles, which I'd lit 
for atmosphere, but no other light entered the space.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, Spitz stripped, unbuttoning and 
slipping off the white shirt and draping it over the back of the 
chair. As always, I ogled him openly, admiring that sweet male 
body. He was so lean and hard that you could actually see his 
ribs when he was stripped to the waist, with enough muscle to 
keep him from appearing shapeless without his being at all burly 
-- "lean and leggy" is how I usually describe the look.

His long, shaggy mane of blond hair briefly concealed his 
handsome face as he bent down to deal with the always-awkward 
removal of the black boots he wears on stage. Finally he unzipped 
his black jeans - for once he was wearing something as common as 
jeans - and pulled them down, exposing his glorious ass.

I watched him and feasted on his beauty, his every movement. 
Gods, he was gorgeous - as lithe and graceful as the Golden 
Panther I call him.

And then he was kneeling before me, his wrists crossed behind his 
back. 

I looked down into that fine-boned chiseled-handsome face, noting 
the way the light from the candles picked out the golden hairs 
over his upper lip, revealing the faint golden depths in his 
sparkling brown eyes. I watched his chest move as he breathed, 
those pink nipples seeming to demand the touch of my fingers and 
tongue. Once again I marveled that this wonderful body had fallen 
into my hands, and I felt privileged and curiously tender toward 
it.

I picked up the leather collar from the nightstand, turning it 
over slowly in my hands, letting him look at it. I began the 
usual routine, but added:

"-- You *will* suffer for me tonight. Unless you safeword, it's 
going to hurt, and it will last a long time."

His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. There was controlled 
sexfear and fascination in his expression, blending into a 
curious intensity. His dark eyes never left my face.

Finally, he nodded, said, "I accept."

I reached out, carefully and slowly placed the collar around his 
neck, making sure he had time to really feel it, and I buckled it 
with equal care. "All right."



Later, he stood with his back against the post, his arms 
stretched around it and cuffed behind. His ankles were also 
cuffed, holding them apart, legs spread a little.

Spitz has a way of totally losing himself in sensation. He arched 
his back in ecstatic offering as I toyed with his sensitive 
nipples. His head was thrown back, lolling against the post, face 
transfigured with bliss, the way I've only seen him being sexed 
or while singing, lips parted, eyes closed -- a study in 
masculine beauty. Every now and then he'd thrash his head in slow 
motion, moaning, gasping, sighing. 

His taut pink nipples couldn't possibly get any stiffer, and the 
tickling sensations had to be filling his entire chest as he 
dragged deep, panting breaths into his lungs, aware of nothing 
else. At this point he was almost beyond words. The chains 
clinked now and again, but he wasn't really trying to get away. 
Not at all.

I lifted my face to his, catching him at a moment when he'd 
lowered his head to kiss him tenderly on the mouth. He opened for 
me, and I let my tongue dart in, then withdrew and just dwelled 
on the feeling of lips on lips as we inhaled each other's hot, 
moist breath. He lifted his head then, and I smeared the kiss 
down to his neck and left shoulder.

His penis was dark and erect even though it hadn't been touched. 
His hips kept instinctively making little thrusting motions, but 
he wasn't actually frustrated, just incredibly aroused to a 
sensual peak.

I wasn't even touching him any more except for my fingertips on 
his nipples. I'd tease the very tips, gently stroke outwards 
along them, and softly rub the aureoles. Every now and then I'd 
lean down to do some mouthwork, taking one of those tender 
nipples into the comforting warmth of my mouth, kissing, sucking, 
flicking my tongue against one the way my fingertips had a moment 
before. His masculine smell filled my nose, tinged with the 
pheromones of a man in full rut.

A thing I've always loved about Spitz is his smell, especially 
when the play turns serious. So many men have this moldy-balogna 
stink. Spitz' scent isn't like that; it's more a musky, warm 
fragrance. I inhaled deeply to take it in, almost chewing it, as 
if I had a Jacobsen organ in the roof of my mouth like a cat. I 
even kissed the damp fine hair in his exposed armpits to get more 
of it, in between kissing his nipples.

"Oh, you like that, don't you," I said rather than asked when I 
pulled my mouth away at one point. "Yes, you like having those 
sweet tits played with. It feels good, doesn't it? Feels like 
something you'd like more of? Yeah."

Every now and then I'd move from his nipples to the area of the 
chest around them, rubbing the paler skin with my fingertips, but 
always I'd go back to his nipples.

I suddenly crouched down to kiss from his left nipple all the way 
down to his navel, planting a single gentle kiss there as well 
before I rose and stepped away, looking him up and down as he 
opened his eyes to see where the pleasure had gone. I smiled. 

"Gods, are you beautiful," I breathed.

His sparkling dark eyes were hungry, demanding. "Please," he 
stated rather than begged.

"You want more?" I asked him, making my face as unreadable as 
possible. I'm told I'm good at it.

"Yes!"

Instead, I turned my back on him and walked away. I opened the 
drawer, knowing exactly what I was looking for - the two stiff 
feathers I'd bought especially for tonight.

When I approached and he saw what I carried in my hands, his 
brown eyes widened, and his breathing speeded up a notch.

I began to tickle his nipples with the feathers, and it drove him 
almost crazy. He'd find the sensations too deliciously intense 
and squirm away, trying to get away from the pleasure. Then when 
I'd "mercifully" pull the feathers away he'd arch his back 
savagely, throwing back his head and whimpering in wordless 
pleas/demands for their return. Which he got, and his reactions 
were like jolts of electricity flowing through that magnificent 
body, muscles standing out in sharp relief in the candlelight as 
he writhed against the pillar, hands balling into fists, the 
chains clinking.

"No, don't stop!" he cried once, his voice almost a wail as he 
begged shamelessly.

Time lost its meaning as I teased his swollen nipples with the 
feathers, and he reacted so strongly, uttering cries and 
whimpers, that an onlooker couldn't have told if it were agony or 
ecstasy that he felt.

And then at long last I withdrew them. He uttered an incoherent 
cry of longing, arching his back, as I walked back to put them 
away.

When I returned, my fingers were at his nipples again. This time, 
I started in by gently running my fingertips up and down those 
tits, feeling the aureoles, the stems, leaning close to study 
them in detail. He looked me in the eye, panting, obviously 
wondering what I was going to do next.

I squeezed both nipples simultaneously, very gently. His head 
lifted again, his panting easing a bit. I repeated the squeeze, 
then softly stroked each one between my thumb and forefinger.

My caresses continued, but I made them gradually firmer.

Now I squeezed each nipple in turn again. But this time, it was 
just hard enough to hurt him.

His response was beautiful. His mouth closed as he stiffened, 
looking straight at me, swallowing, tensing his jaw a little. He 
knew he was about to begin hurting for me.

I stepped in closer, lowered my head to his chest, and took his 
left nipple in between my lips. I began nipping, gently at first, 
but letting him feel my teeth, and I squeezed the other nipple a 
bit harder.

I built slowly, gradually, mixing the nips and squeezes with more 
caresses, but giving him fewer and fewer caresses and more pain, 
until I was no longer caressing but hurting him. 

At first he'd actually quieted down a bit, no longer overwhelmed 
with pleasure. But my nipping soon turned to biting, getting ever 
harder and crueler, and I started not only squeezing but twisting 
and pulling.

He was only half-hard now, and for all his determination not to 
break, his body was jerking involuntarily now and again, the 
chains clinking. Those nipples had to be really, painfully sore 
by now.

His scent changed, now holding a bitter tinge of fear and anger. 
His harsh breathing filled my ears, the room. 

I lifted my head and took both tits between my fingers at once, 
and I squeezed hard, viciously, almost hard enough to bruise the 
tender flesh. Still hanging on to his nipples, I took a step back 
to watch the reaction.

It was all I could have hoped for. He threw his head back, 
arching hard, muscles sharply etched in the golden light of the 
candles, gritting his teeth as his entire body shuddered. Sweat 
was sparkling on his skin now.

I released the tormented nipples, and he lowered his head to 
glare at me, dark eyes crackling with anger. He was panting, then 
he closed his mouth.

"Bitch!" he gritted.

I returned that stare, looking into his dark brown eyes -- their 
luster couldn't be seen in the dim light -- his beautiful face. 
Oh, gods, he looked so strong and proud, it was almost unbearable 
to look at, like staring directly into the sun.

I smiled coldly.

"I'll remember that," I said, sliding both hands down his heaving 
flanks, feeling his life and warmth, before I resumed the 
torture.

I'll never know how long I played with him this way. I'm sure 
that however long it really was - fifteen minutes, half an hour -
- it seemed a lot longer to him. His fair skin became slick with 
sweat and his harsh, tortured breathing filled the room. More 
sweat dripped down onto the cement of the floor around him; his 
glorious golden hair was lank with it. His smell was sweet and 
strong, a primal savage musk.

He'd jerk against the pillar, head thrown back, gritting his 
teeth, his breath hissing with pain, every muscle taut as a 
bowstring. Then, when I stopped for a moment, he'd slump with 
relief, gasping, head hanging, sweat dripping from his long 
golden hair, eyes closed.

I gloated over his every muscle contraction, his gasps, his 
writhing, his refusal to cry out or safeword, to give in to the 
pain. I fed on his pain like a vampire, and he knew it and it 
added to his humiliation, but he could do absolutely nothing to 
stop it, or even control his tormented reactions. By now it was 
all he could do not to scream.

Maybe he was praying I'd eventually grow sated and weary with the 
sport before he broke. I imagined the gods laughing at his 
prayer, the way I was silently laughing.

I whispered in his ear as I paused, once again running my hands 
over his taut lean body with savage tenderness.

"You think it's almost over? Oh, no, we've just begun, my 
beautiful panther. You're going to suffer for me a lot more 
before tonight is over. I'll bet you're thinking it can't 
possibly hurt any worse, but oh, yes, it will. Get ready to make 
a down payment on Hell, Spitz. You're going to suffer for your 
Mistress."

He closed his eyes, swallowed, sucked in air.

And then I turned away, going back to the cabinet, opening it. 
Moment of truth time.

The nipple clamps I took out aren't the cruelest I have in my 
collection. Far from it. But for Spitz, who was still 
inexperienced, they would be more than sufficient.

I walked up to him, and we stared with savage intensity into each 
other's eyes, and then I held out my right hand, the clamps lying 
in my palm, showing them to him.

I saw a muscle in his left cheek twitch as he clamped his jaw 
harder than before. The defiance in his face mingled with fear as 
I held them before him, and he took a deep breath, nostrils 
flaring.

I smiled grimly and got to work.

I stroked the raw, reddened left nipple; I could sense him 
desperately willing it not to stiffen, but of course that was 
futile. I made sure the jaws seized the aureole, not the tip, but 
he still tensed at the sudden flare of agony. I made sure it was 
tight enough that it wouldn't fall off no matter how violently he 
moved. I ministered similarly to the other nipple and stepped 
back to watch.

He stiffened, back straightening against the unyielding post, and 
his head once again went back as he grimaced in pain, eyes 
screwed shut. His chest heaved, sweat gleaming on it, and I knew 
those throbbing nipples felt swollen and tender beyond belief and 
that his every breath exaggerated the hellish sensations. A tear 
ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek.

I made another trip to the cabinet.

By the time I had returned with the little weights, he had gotten 
accustomed to the clamps' bite, managing to accept the pain. He 
stood against the post, breathing hard, then opening his eyes to 
watch me approach. But I wouldn't show him what I had gotten this 
time; I kept the weights hidden in my hand. Instead, I reached up 
with my other hand and stroked his brow and his hair almost 
comfortingly.

"Gods, you're beautiful when you're suffering," I told him. And 
then I opened my hand, holding it before his eyes.

When he saw the implements of torture he was about to experience, 
he actually paled, and I thought he was going to safeword. "Oh my 
God," he breathed. But he tilted his head back, resting it 
against the padding, and this lovely little surrender was 
signaled by a quiver through his entire glorious, tense, sweaty 
body.

Working slowly and carefully, I clipped the first weight to the 
right nipple clamp. I didn't let it drop; instead, I slowly 
lowered it until it was completely suspended from the clamp. Even 
so, he shuddered in agony as I released it. I attached the other 
weight, and stepped back.

He was literally shaking with anguish, his face a mask of agony, 
drenched with tears. All trace of his erection was gone.

My world narrowed to the sight of that beautiful, martyred male 
body. Nothing else existed at all - not the walls of the 
playroom, not the world outside it.

I slowly, ever so slowly, unfastened the riding crop that hung 
from my belt. I extended the tip toward him and used it to toy 
softly with the weights, making them sway back and forth. Little 
cries came from him, whimpers, groans and gasps, as he rode the 
very edge of what he could endure, his entire body shaking. 

I pulled back my wrist and gave the crop a little swing, tapping 
the weight dangling from his right nipple. His reaction to that 
was totally satisfying, the most intense so far, as his pain-
wracked body writhed against the pillar, his breath a hissing, 
barely suppressed scream - and still he would not safeword.

And then I stepped forward, took the weight in my fingers, and 
tugged at it.

The iron in his soul broke at last and he screamed. "Oh, God! No 
more! Please! Aaaaah! Safeword! SAFEWORD!"

I dropped the weight (and that brought a fresh cry) and quickly 
fastened the crop back on my belt.

I almost felt regret at what I had to do now, but there was no 
painless way to release him. Working gently, quickly, surely, I 
released the right nipple clamp, and the blood bursting back into 
the tormented flesh brought a savage scream from him as he shook 
like a tarpon being gaffed, very near to fainting.

Then I released the left one. He lost all control, and I honestly 
thought he was going to faint as he collapsed in his bonds, head 
lolling forward, his bladder letting go. 

Goddammit, I thought. He was going to be supremely humiliated 
when he realized he'd pissed himself.

I stood and watched just long enough to be sure he was still 
conscious, then put away the clamps and weights. By the time I 
returned to his side, the agony was just beginning to recede as 
normal circulation was restored; he was taking deep, wracking 
breaths in between sobs -- he really was crying.

I ignored his tears just for the moment, squatting down to take 
the cuffs off his ankles -- the pungent smell of his urine filled 
my nose. By now he'd probably smelled it too. Then I stood up, 
stepping directly in front of him to take him in my arms so he 
could cry on my shoulder, one hand stroking the back of his head 
as he hung in his wrist bonds.

"Sssshhh, love. It's over now. It's all over. No more. It's 
okay," I kept repeating. "It's okay."

Spitz is resilient; his sobs eased quickly as the pain faded. 

"Oh, God," he managed, his face still buried in my shoulder, and 
nothing more.

When I was sure he could stand up by himself, I got the footstool 
and released his wrist cuffs. I stepped around immediately to 
catch him in case he slumped to the floor, but he didn't; he did 
lurch heavily against me before catching himself. Mercifully he 
didn't step in the puddle, but I heard him say, "Oh, shit --"

"Don't worry about it," I told him. "Don't worry about it at 
all."

I helped him walk to the little bed. Once there, he lay down 
carefully on his back. He ran one hand slowly over his face, 
wiping off the worst of the sweat, then let his arm fall back on 
the covers, utterly exhausted. His warm brown eyes closed.

"Oh, my God," he breathed softly.

I pulled up the chair and sat down beside him, reaching out to 
stroke his brow as he rested.

After a time, I went back to the cabinet again; this time I drew 
out a tube of salve. I slathered some of the stuff on my fingers, 
then returned to him and started applying it to his sore nipples 
as gently as humanly possible. It was a fairly strong anesthetic.

He stiffened at first, clenching his fists; gentle as my touch 
was, it was impossible for him to bear it without pain. As the 
numbing salve took effect, he gasped and relaxed bonelessly into 
the bed.

When I had finished, I capped the tube and tossed it aside, not 
bothering to get up to put it back. I began stroking his brow 
again as he rested.

What to do with the puddle of urine was a mild quandary. Making 
him get up and clean it up would be extremely cruel, at least on 
the face of it. On the other hand, if he had to see me cleaning 
up after him, as if he were a sick child who'd made a mess he was 
too helpless to clean up, that might be worse: he'd be ill with 
humiliation, and not in a good way. There was no use waiting 
until he was asleep and trying to clean it without waking him; 
Spitz is a light sleeper.

I decided.

"Feeling better?" I asked.

He nodded slowly, eyes still closed.

"Good. Get up, now. You can clean the floor for me and then take 
a good shower."

He winced, and his expression was a study in shame; but he got up 
slowly and lowered his feet to the floor. He looked back at me, 
but I didn't smile, keeping my expression as neutral as I 
possibly could, with no gloating or anger or sternness to hurt 
him further. He finally sighed, stood up and walked out, to 
return shortly thereafter with a bucket of water and sponge.

He had to get down on his hands and knees to clean up the puddle. 
Fortunately it wasn't that large; the sponge would be enough. I 
sat on the chair and watched him, feeling myself become aroused 
all over again by the sight of him nude on all fours. Even in 
that servile position, he was handsome; if he looked like a naked 
animal, it was like a beautiful one.

I was still wearing my boots. I reached out with one foot and 
gently touched his left hip with the toe. He looked up sharply, 
and his face tightened with scarcely bearable shame; but I drew 
the tip down and across his thigh in a stroking motion, then 
touched it to his lean-muscled belly, rubbing it back and forth 
for a moment before retreating, my eyes never leaving his.

He sighed almost imperceptibly, lowered his head and returned to 
wiping the floor.

I got up then, reached down and petted him on one shoulder; he 
didn't look up or pause again. Then I began stroking his back 
slowly and softly, reassuringly, as he worked. I heard another 
little sigh from him. 

"It's okay, Spitz," I whispered, sensing those words would hit 
the spot. "It's okay." Some of the tension drained from his body.

When he had finished, kneeling up to drop the sponge in the 
bucket of soiled water, I told him, "Get in the shower now, love. 
I'll join you in a few moments."

After stripping naked myself, I was as good as my word, joining 
him in the little bathroom for a long, soothing warm shower. I 
joined in, helping, as he cleaned himself, rubbing the soap and 
then the washcloth over his back. He was silent, but some of the 
sullenness had left him. He kept his back to the showerhead; his 
nipples were so excruciatingly tender that even the water would 
hurt them. He kept his eyes closed much of the time, looking 
thoroughly worn out.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded, eyes still closed, but he actually managed a tiny 
ghost of a smile. I grasped his shoulders and drew him into a 
long gentle embrace. With his glorious yellow hair slicked down 
and flattened by the water, he reminded me a bit of a plucked 
peacock, but I had to squelch my amusement.

"That's all there is, love," I reassured him. "I may give you an 
order or two tomorrow, but it'll be something small like giving 
me head or a backrub, nothing you wouldn't enjoy anyway. No more 
pain for the next few days."

Only when the hot water was exhausted and the shower stream began 
turning cold did I reach behind him to shut off the water, and we 
climbed out and toweled each other dry.

I sent him into the bedroom with its much larger bed while I 
returned to the playroom to get the salve. When I got into the 
bedroom myself, he was already lying on his back, one arm over 
his face, but he lowered his arm to look at me as I entered.

I sat down on the edge of the bed to apply the salve a second 
time, and he actually smiled as I told him, "You did just fine, 
love."

"Thanks."

I got down carefully onto the bed beside him, facing him. He was 
still being very careful about his nipples brushing the coverlet, 
but he was willing enough to return the gesture when I slipped my 
arms around him and held him, warm, living and breathing in my 
grasp.

"Go to sleep now," I whispered to him, kissing his cheek. He did, 
even before I did.



Direct comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com .

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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