She suspects nothing. Perhaps, for many years before she arrived here in this room, in this scene, at your mercy, she has dreamed of her nipples being clamped by a cruel and mysterious man. In her dreams, he is faceless and the pain is fantasy pain. She imagined herself writhing in agony and this made her wet. Many times, fantasy pain has delivered her to her moment of self-induced ecstacy. Remembering her dreams, she thinks this will be fun. She believes that real pain is as it is in her dreams. She is becoming aroused, feels a trickle of moisture down the inside of her thigh. She doesn't realize yet that her arousal is triggering endorphins, slowly raising her pain threshold, altering her consciousness, opening her heart and body to your manipulations, making her your owned slave. You talk to her, caress her, move about her body, distract her. There are so many sensations now that she only feels a slight burning sensation in her nipples. She does not have a clue about what is to come. This will not be fantasy pain. Dreams can neither contain nor deliver what this is.
Walk to the wall where your toys are displayed. She watches you closely as you examine and consider several implements of varying severity. Take down the split tawse. Tap it into your palm once or twice. Give her a long and thoughtful glance. Give the padded rail along the wall a solid whack with it. Notice if she jumps at the sound of the impact. Put it back. Take down the bullwhip. Look at her again. Move to the center of the room and drape it out behind you in preparation for a stroke. Whirl it around your head, several times, long enough for her to hear the whistling sound and feel the gut-clenching rush of fear. Suddenly lash out near her, letting the rifle-shot whip-pop explode in the air by her head. She definitely flinched that time. Let her see you shaking your head in disappointment. Hang the bullwhip back on the wall. Saunter over to the post where she hangs helpless, tied by her wrists and completely exposed.
Grab her by the hair and force her mouth open with your tongue. As you kiss her, take one of the clothespins in your fingers and squeeze hard, holding the pressure on the nipple steady. Ahh! She remembers her nipples now. Let go of the clothespin and reach down between her legs. She is dripping wet. Insert your fingers and stimulate her as you continue kissing. Hard and then soft, the pressure varies and you tease and tease. Her breath is getting ragged, she is very hot and the blush of arousal has flushed up across her breasts. Her lips are swollen and the pupils of her eyes are doubled. She has been flogged three times in the last two hours and between floggings, your relentless kisses and unpredictable caress have brought her to the edge. And now the clothespins have done their work. It is time.
You thrust her legs apart roughly and enter her. You begin to move, watching her face as you thrust again and again. She is trapped between your body and the post, her hair clenched in your fist. Without warning, you grab the string and yank both clothespins off her nipples at once. They have been in place for fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes and blood begins to rush back into her numbed flesh. With blood comes sensation. Terrible sensation. You thrust into her again and again as her pain builds and suddenly she understands.
Clothespins don't hurt. Taking them OFF hurts. Oh and how it hurts. She learns the hard way, knows for the first time the difference between fantasy and reality. She starts to moan. And when it feels like it couldn't possibly hurt more than it does right now, it gets worse. And at the peak of her pain, you know again why you love to hurt a beautiful woman, what sweetness there is in her cries, in her tears, in the bliss of her agony. Everything happens at once and you are suddenly there.
You come.
So does she. Endlessly.
Reach down to the V of her body, test her again by squeezing some hanging flesh. See if she is still swollen. See if she will hold her silence. See if perhaps she is ready for the merciless torture of the wooden pony.
The picture of a sex slave under nipple torture is but one of the many fantasies featured at Catholic Guilt's Dungeon
'She was ready.'
Domination & submission
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