Love Is Like A Nipple Clamp

Love Is Like A Nipple Clamp

I would die for her. I would burn for her. I would crawl for her. I would kill for her. I would freeze for her. I would be tortured for her.

And I am.

My hands are raised behind my back, almost like a strappado, and chained to a hook in the ceiling. My shoulders ache, because I have been like this for hors, while Shappi my lover watches TV, only occasionally glancing across at my naked body. I can only relieve a bit of the pain by going en pointe, going up on the very tips of my toes. But I have not done any ballet since I was at school, and I cannot hold the position.

My large, full breasts are hanging down in front of me, because of the position in which I am in. My lover has attached clamps to the tips of my nipples. The clamps are the sort where, the more that you pull them, the tighter they become. There are two pound weights hanging from each clamp, pulling down my tortured nipples.

“Please…” I gasp. Shappi gets up and walks over to me, looking into my eyes with her deep, dark ones, full of love and cruelty. I melt. I love her more than life itself. Nothing that she can do is wrong. I would suffer any torture for my Iranian lover.

“Please do you want me to increase the weights?” she asks. I cannot gainsay her.

“Yes…” I gasp. She grants me my request, placing another pound weight on each nipple. I stifle a scream. I am not allowed to scream, no matter what she does to me. I must suffer in silence.

Later, after she lets me down, I lie on my back as she mounts my face, her pussy – her wiry black hair trimmed to a strip – over my mouth. I adore her pussy, bringing her to two orgasms in a row. I am allowed to finger my shaven cunt to an orgasm myself, which I thank her for. My cunt is shaven because I am her slave. Shappi says that all slaves must have shaven cunts. And what I have is a cunt. What she has is a pussy.

I have to bring her to two orgasms before I am granted one of my own. She says that she is being gracious to allow any orgasms at all, and that many slaves never get to cum. She says that, if she keeps me on as her sex slave, that I will have to give her an increasing number of orgasms, with the passage of time, before I am allowed one myself: three, then four, then five, and so on. It is just that I should bring her pleasure, a lot of pleasure, before having an orgasm myself.

It is only my weakness that means that I get so desperate to cum. I would like to bring her to a thousand orgasms before cumming myself. But thoughts of her arouse me so much. She is the sexiest woman I have ever met. She is twelve years older than me: a wonderful thirty opposed to my eighteen.

I think of her when I am on the bus to and from college. Thinking of her turns me on. I wish that I could put my hands down my tight trousers and frig my sopping cunt. I think of her when I am in classes. I think of her beautiful body stretched out on the bed, and my mouth affixed to her pussy, bringing her pleasure. I never want to remove my mouth from her luscious pussy. Her pussy tastes so much better than mine.

Sometimes, when she sits on my face, she teases me with a large pair of scissors, telling me that in many countries girls have their clits snipped off. I think that FGM turns her on, the idea of girls who never get to cum. She will sit there, on my face, my tongue inside her sopping pussy, and slide the cold metal of the scissors over my nipples, the cold metal making them go erect. She will open the scissors, and trap my nipple between the blades, teasing me that she is going to snip my nipple off. But she never does. Once, though, I noticed the smallest of cuts on my right nipple, where she closed the blades a little too much. I had to masturbate to orgasm when I saw that.

She will fuck me with the scissors, sliding them inside my cunt. She likes to see me cum with the scissors inside me.

She keeps teasing me that she would like to see me suck off a dog – and a big one, like a Great Dane or an Irish Wolfhound. Something with a nasty, big cock. It is the only time that she ever talks of cocks. But she is only saying that to humiliate me, to reduce me to being nothing but a bitch. I know that dogs are not allowed in our apartment. But it has inspired dark fantasies in me, of Shappi holding a Great Dane’s leash, while I crawl on my belly underneath it, my mouth around its massive cock, deep throating it until its cum slides down my throat. Every time that I go for a walk in the park, and I see a dog like a Great Dane, I cannot help thinking about it; I cannot help getting aroused, in a Pavlovian response. It has got so bad that I have stopped going for walks in the local park.

Shappi has even bough a leash: a dog chain, the sort that throttles if it is pulled on. I didn’t think that they sold them any more. She tells me that I am her bitch.

She has started chaining me on my toes, with the choke chain around my neck, drawn tight to the hook in the ceiling. Sometimes I have to stand for hours like that, the chain tight around my throat. Occasionally she goes out to the corner store, leaving me like that, and that is scary.

“Still alive, then?” is what she says, when she comes back, and she laughs with her wonderful musical laugh, as though it is funny.

I never wear clothes in the apartment. I am only allowed to put them on when I go to college in the morning, and I have to take them off as soon as I get back, whether I am in the apartment or not. She supervises what clothing I am allowed to wear. She likes me to look sexy at all times. So she has thrown away all of my underwear. I have a lot of short skirts and tight tops, but nothing which will get me arrested. I am only allowed to wear jeans or leggings if the weather is cold, and she has selected jeans which are a size too small, so that I get a camel toe while wearing them, which she says is very sexy. I found it humiliating, at first, to go out like that. But now I am happy to do so, as I know it pleases her.

If I could I would never wear clothes again. I like being nude around the apartment, even when my lover is fully clothed. I am even nude on the rare occasions when Shappi has friends over, other women who I suspect may be dominant lesbians. None of them are Iranian. Shappi tells them that I am her sex slave. She makes me serve pastries or tea. The women get to handle my naked body, putting fingers inside me, or twisting my nipples. But I don’t think Shappi would ever loan me out. She simply is too jealous for anything like that.

I am not allowed to tell anybody about my life with Shappi. I am not allowed to go out with her. Shappi tells me that it is because of her parents back in Isfahan in Iran. They don’t know that she is a lesbian, and she wants to keep it that way. I can understand that. My parents don’t know that I am a lesbian, either.

Shappi likes me to be her footstool while she is watching television. I have to kneel down in front of the couch so that she can rest her high-heeled shoes on my naked back. Often she puts a clamp on my clit. This is a screw clamp with two wooden bars joined by two screws which can be tightened. She pushes it down to the base of my clit then tightens it until it is uncomfortable, so that I am always aware that I am wearing it. It pleases her for me to be in pain; and it pleases me to please her.

She hurts me, not because I have been bad, but because it turns her on to see my body in pin. She says that it makes her hot to see me cry, or my face to wrinkle in pain. It turns her on to hear me gasp in pain, or to stifle a scream. Often she will sit on my face as she tortures me, so that I can make her cum while I am in pain. She cums a lot quicker when she is hurting me than when she is not.

She has a riding crop. She – when sitting on my face – likes to flick it at my breasts. Because of the angle and distance she can’t really hurt them too much. I love to feel the tattoo of the crop’s tassel on my milky-white breast flesh. It turns me on.

Sometimes she will tell me to hold my cuntlips apart. It has to be me, because she doesn’t want to hurt her fingers. She has beautiful, long red nails. So I hold myself open, so that she can crop my widespread cunt. Those blows are a lot harder than the ones on my breasts. But I can take it, because I lover her, and would suffer anything for her. I am happy for her to redden my cuntlips and bruise them.

Sometimes she will just use her nails. They are very sharp. She likes to maul my large breasts, leaving deep red marks on the flesh. She digs her nails into my nipples. I am always scared that she will sever them, she pinches so hard. But, of course, she never does. It is worse when she leans forward to use her nails on my cuntlips, digging into the soft inner lips. I know that it will always end by her pinching my clit. That always leaves marks on my sensitive nubbin. She uses her nails on my clit as she is cumming herself – her clit in orgasm, while mine is in agony. and isn’t that the way that things are supposed to be?

Occasionally she will use needles to pierce my breasts and cunt mound. That was really scary the fist time. But I have got used to it. She has not yet stuck a needle into my clit. I suspect that is still to cum. I suspect that, when she does that, that I WILL cum, just from the pain. With each pain session I crave the torture a little more. I could not live without it.

On three occasions she has used cigarettes to burn me. She is trying to give up smoking, and only smokes after a day when she has been stressed out at work. As smoking is not allowed in the building we have to turn off the smoke alarm during those sessions. Shappi sits on my face, and smokes a leisurely cigarette. In between drags she likes to draw the ember lightly over my body, singing what area takes her interest: my bellybutton, my breasts, my cunt mound, even my cunt lips. She will scatter her ash on my body, using me as her ash tray. I am happy to serve in that manner. But when the cigarette is at an end she extinguishes it on my body. The first two times she crushed it out on a nipple. That was bad, and I almost screamed. But the third time she pulled back my clitoral hood and I feared that she was going to extinguish it on my erect clit. She thought better of it, though, and stubbed it out on my left labium.

The pain from burning is very intense, and, where she stubs it out, it takes ages for the marks to go away. I just wish that my flesh would heal quicker. I suspect that, the next time, she will definitely extinguish the cigarette on my clit, and I look forward to that day with both lust and trepidation.

One day, before I went off to college, she told me that I could have as many orgasms as I liked that day. She got out the most powerful love balls she had been able to find, and forced them into my cunt. As I was not allowed to wear knickers she got out her sewing kit and sewed my cunt shut. I had to go to college like that, wincing whenever I took a step.

It was a day of pleasure and pain. Every time I walked it seemed to pull on my sewn cuntlips. Every time I was still I felt waves of pleasure wash over me. The thing is that my face goes very red when I cum, and I had people keep asking me if I was okay. I was short of breath, and I had a very red face. They probably thought I was ill. I hoped that they thought that I was ill, and not cumming. For all I knew they had guessed the truth, that I was a dirty lesbian slur who liked to be tortured.

It was a great relief when I got home and Shappi removed the stitches from my poor cunt. I had to admit that I had lost account of how many orgasms I had had during the day.

Shappi has turned me into her toilet. She likes to piss in my mouth, and now, if she just needs a piss, will never use the toilet in our apartment. At first I was unsure about the warm, bitter taste. But now I need it. I would feel unloved if she did not piss in my mouth.

Shappi does not like scat. But, if she did, I would not balk, for I love her.

Shappi has told me that, if she ever had to go back to Iran, that she would not be able to bear the thought of me with another woman. That filled me with such love and desire for her. She says that, if ever that day happens, that she would snuff me, but that, because she loves me so much, that she would make my end memorable. She says that she would cut off my clit, and preserve it in Lucite, so that it would last forever, and she would always have something to remember me by.

That day, when she told me that she might snuff me one day – just a fantasy – she was so turned on that my tongue brought her off in seconds. It is clear that, in the lovely cruel darkness of her mind, that the idea of snuffing me turns her on.

I am burnt for her. I crawl for her. I am cropped for her. I am pierced for her. I am tortured for her. I would die for her.

And I suspect that one day I will.

The End.