Nipple Clamps & the Pleasurable Pinch
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My nipple clamps: I have a love/hate/love relationship with them. (Although to be honest, sometimes it’s more of a hate/love/hate relationship.) I am myself often profoundly passionately ambivalent, and my nipple clamps embody this dyadic intensity with exceptional and excruciating precision.
They’re a simple machine, really. Just two alligator clips yoked together by a slender chain. Some nipple clamps seem kinder with their adjustable screws set in their metal centers, but it’s a sham kindness really, for where the lies the gentleness so rests the cruelty. You can open the alligator mouths wider by manipulating the screw, but you can also make their jaws shut tight. Too wide and the clamps slip off your nipples erect and hard as pencil erasers. Too tight and, well, you can imagine.
Or can you? There is a fine line between pleasure and pain, as has been noted with such repetition as to render the aphorism nearly banal. The nipple clamp surfs that fine crest. It limns the line, as much as it blurs it. Because the simple and inescapable fact is that when you—or someone you trust—carefully places first one nipple, casually rubbed to tiny tumescence, and then the other within those small alligator jaws, something painful and something pleasurable will happen.
The best way I can describe it is this: the nipple clamp draws the shortest distance—a straight somatic line—between your nipple and your clit. The pinch of the nipple sends the electric shock of new recognition to your more pleasurable bits, and even as the nipple hurts, even as it screams in its small silent voice, you’ll find an opposite and corollary reaction occurring in your genitals. It has a nearly mathematical beauty, and it feels as perfect, as frustrating, as inexorable as algebra.
Nipple clamps do more than shock anew the pleasure bits. They adorn you. Nipples beg to be dressed, poking out as they do, whether perched on the modest slopes of a flat breast or the abundance of a full breast. The nipple clamp, shiny, glittering in candle light or street light, looks beauteous, the slight weight of the chain tugging the breasts down in graceful tandem. The chain swings gently between the breasts as the body moves. It begs to be pulled.
The thing about me and my nipple clamps is that when I put them on, or when they are put on me, their tiny bite wakes some sleeping beastie. It’s a feral pain, and make no mistake about it, it is pleasurable. The clamps rouse me from complacence. They intensify everything I feel—good, bad, and exquisite. They make an ordinary round of rogering something more visceral, more total, and more impassioned.
Which is not to say, as I began, that I always love them. The nipple clamps are not for me an every day thing. They are a treat and they are a trick. They are something that I both look forward to and that I dread. They make every fucking moment that much more immediate, and they can not be removed fast enough once I, exhausted and wrung pleasure wet and sighing, have come unto completion.
Fucktoy
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With the blindfold over my eyes and the ball gag in my mouth, I find the smell of leather and pussy is inescapable.
My arms are bound in thick white rope Jeannie-style: before my chest and under my boobs. I look like I just have to nod my head and blink to make my wish come true, but perhaps I already have and it already is.
My lover has piled pillows pasha-high on the bed. I am unceremoniously bent over them; my chin is propped up on my rope-bound wrists and my ass, which I cannot see, which I must imagine, forced as I am in this nose-down, coccyx-up posture, a position that not so much suggests my submission as it enforces it, my imagined ass flowers large and glowing, a hot-house blossom, large and mysterious and faintly dangerous. My ass, exposed as it is to My lover’s eyes and my fecund imagination, embodies both fascination and revulsion.
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Tight Spots
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We are waiting for breakfast — have been waiting for twenty minutes. The line is out the door and halfway down the block; about right for this place at 1 PM on a Saturday. (Good thing they serve breakfast until 2.) We’re almost inside; the door is propped half open by my boot. People pack the entrance because the gusting wind is chill. In front of us are two couples with children; we are not partial to children, but these, although fractious, are contained. One has brought her bear to breakfast; you smile your approval.
Behind us is a trio of college students, very happy about something. One is a girl with bright copper hair punked up, hanging on the arm of a guy whose long black braid looks like it was dipped in shoe polish. The third is a girl too short to see clearly. I opine that they’re art students — they look like they all dressed in the same fashionable dumpster this morning. You tell me I’m too judgmental.
The wind crowds the trio into us, and the couples in front contract to give us a little room. We shrink into it. The line moves six inches.
You are wedged into me quite tightly now; arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder. Gusts blowing through the partially open door fan your hair across my eyes. Unexpectedly, your tongue makes a pass at my earlobe, and you whisper, “No escape — I’ve got you now.” Read more
The Key of G
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I don’t know about you, but it has taken me years to make friends with my g-spot. Decades, even. My clit and I had that magical connection you feel with that weird-pretty girl you’ve seen around, you know because you go to the same clubs and bookstores and used clothing shops, and then something happens, some strange serendipitous act throws you together like perfect salad ingredients-like dried cranberries and crumbled gorgonzola, say-and you both realize in a blinding white epiphany that you were best friends just waiting to happen.
My clit and I were like that: fast friends on first acquaintance. My g-spot and I, not so much.
It might be because it’s so reclusive, like Greta Garbo, shrouded in the obscuring silk scarf of my vaginal walls. All tucked up inside, under, and away, the g-spot hides behind the stony prominence of the pubic bone, like a star cowering under a paparazzi siege. The g-spot is a small thing, easy to overlook in fumbling explorations. It doesn’t stick out or pop up or do much of anything to announce its presence. Wearing latex gloves, you’d miss the slight cat-tongue roughness of the g-spot.
I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that more than its mere reclusivity, the g-spot is also like fine wine: it takes time to mature. I don’t have any hard evidence on this hypothesis, no scientific studies, no empiric substantiation, nothing more than a long and searching self-analysis, nothing but my own experience upon which to reflect and wonder how the exact and precise hell I missed this seat of pleasure for so many years.
On Sucking & Suckers
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The act of sucking hardly gets fair linguistic treatment. When something is really awful, we say it “sucks,” however puerile it may be of us to do so; if it’s really bad, we might add a “dude,” as in the commiserative “Wow, that sucks, dude.” (Although, oddly, when something, really, really sucks, when it sucks beyond all comparable suckitude, we often says it “blows,” unless we just add an intensifying adverb and say that the thing in question “fucking sucks,” a phrase that does have a lovely assonant belly to it.)
When someone is currying favor, that person is “sucking up.” But when a person is gobbling food hurriedly and unmindfully, he or she is “sucking it down.” When person is inept, or when an event fails to live up to our expectation, we might say the person or the event in question “sucks ass.” P.T. Barnum famously said that a sucker is born every minute, less referring to babies, who do in fact literally suck, than those of us who are figurative gullible prats, ready and willing to fall victim to machinations of the wily and the brash, if also the somewhat amoral.
We might, after we’ve fallen prey to a scam, turn around and call the perpetrator of said scam a “cocksucker,” a term usually reserved for men, despite the fact that far more women suck cocks, just speaking on pure empirics. “Cocksucker” interests me not merely because of it’s often inaccurate hurling-I’m way more of a cocksucker than most of the men I’ve called a “cocksucker”-but also because the word embodies a grudging admiration, even if it also sometimes gestures to homophobia. Most cocksuckers don’t, for example, either suck up or suck ass. Most cocksuckers have a luster about them. I think I’d almost rather be a cocksucker than a bitch, and I actually like being a bitch.
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This Unknown Mistress
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I have a fantasy that centers on a woman who knows my body better than I do myself. In my fantasy, her voice tells me to touch myself, how to touch and where.
“Use your left hand,” she says, “and peel back your labia like the pages of a book. Let your right finger tease with a gentle pain the tip of your clit.”
I hear her voice, a sweet rosé of a voice, purrs in my ear.
“It feels good, doesn’t it.” Less a question than a statement. She knows what feels good. She always knows.
In my fantasy, she watches.
In my fantasy she tells me when to arch my back so that the finger, the toy or the cock – my fantasies are liquid and swirling with possibility – rubs against my g-spot. Or so that it doesn’t.
She can be cruel, my fantasy woman. Her voice, her knowledge, make me impossibly wet, improbably swollen; she makes my cunt flower forth like a Georgia O’Keefe lily.
Lend Me a Hand…
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Lend me a hand. Not, however, just any hand. A hand blank and devoid of nuance, a hand blunt-cut as a cheap cigar, a hand without delicacy simply will not do. Nor will one too effete, too wan, too limpid and limp with lack of use. This lines of this hand cannot belie the power of its touch.
Give me this hand, a hand clean and manicured, but not too well-manicured. A hand that neither has the anxious red-ragged cuticles of the recently audited nor the great scooping nails of a Long Island goomah. Give me this hand with its sensitive touch and tensile strength and knowing fingers. Give me this hand. Perhaps it’s attached to you, perhaps it’s not. Perhaps you just want to watch.
What I want from this hand is quite simple: Finger me. Ply my pussy lips apart like the stuck together pages of a Maxim at Riker’s Island. Run a fingertip down my slit and cleave me like liquid rosy sand. Let those digits linger like a party guest. Tug on my labia like a shade. Pinch and roll them like a hand-rolled cigarette. Spread my pussy open like a peach.
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