I’m a very impressionable girl. I can be very easily swayed by peer pressure, or just pressure, or just peers. Sometimes even just by peering, or occasionally, as this particular instance suggests, by poring.
One day, one afternoon, I was happily wasting time reading blogs, and I stumbled across an entry excerpted in Bacchus’ Eros Blog in which the writer painstakingly extolled the loving praises of her nipple clamps, especially when she used them while masturbating.
Huh, grunted the little voice in my brain. I had a pair of nipple clamps. I had a yen for self-stim. I myself had grown a bit bored with my onanistic repertoire, my little solo two-step, my own diddling goodness.
I had, I reflected, lost that self-loving feeling.
The sheen was off my toys. The bloom was off my rose. The lily had lost its gilding. And so the little voice went, Huh, and so I started rifling through my little pink bag of tricks, the tiny twat-toned tote that holds the detritus of my sextoy life, my second-string toys, if you will, because often when it comes to them I won’t.
There’s a glass buttplug whose hard angles suggest design by a person devoid of asshole, or the desire to enjoy it. There’s an acrylic wand long since replaced by my exponentially better designed njoy Fun Wand. There’s the remote bullet vibe that except for one lovely afternoon of buzzy joy just never really worked. And there, underneath the mess, was curled my nipple clamps like a shiny two-headed snake.
Donny had bought me the clamps six months or so ago during a trip to one of the sextoy purveyors in my neighborhood (he also bought several lengths of lovely rope and a leather blindfold), but he’d had a hard time affixing them to my nipples—the rubber-coated ends just kept popping off—and frankly, they hurt.
We liked the idea of nipple clamps, we’d decided, but we didn’t really enjoy the reality, and so they were relegated to the pink tote of the second string.
But something about reading this writer’s redacted words stirred me. It was her boredom and her hunger, naked and glistening as my own, that I recognized. She felt my dull pain, and given that we were clearly a kindred kind, I should therefore feel her sharp pain.
So I dug out the clamps, and after several attempts tinkering at the screws that provide the tension, and after pulling on my nipples and figuring out how to stick each one in its on clamp so that there was enough squeeze to make the clamp stick but not so much I wanted to scream in pain, I went to bed with a vibe and big dildo and I made myself come hard.
The orgasm breathed heavy life into my masturbation, and often I found myself shamefully fishing out the clamps when I, like the writer, couldn’t find it in me to come on my onesy, or my onesy and my toys of choice and my normally fecund imagination.
I’d tried nipple clamps before, when I was with the strange Princeton Dom who disconcertingly looked like one of my uncles. Then too I’d had an ambivalent reaction: I liked the aesthetic, but the pain did nothing for me. I just didn’t see the big.
But now, tucked secretly under my eiderdown, or spread across its top like berry preserves, wet and glistening, and all shiny showy in my self-sluttery, I did. I liked the pain, for my nipples tiny screams seemed to drop like resonating stones in the echoing pool of my pussy. I could feel each twinge of pain pulse in my clit, and every time I used the clamps in shamefaced tandem with my toys and my diddling, the results were magnificent.
Though as soon as I came, I found, the pinchy-pully magic was gone, and I could not remove the clamps quite fast enough.
My boredom is, I think, contagious. As soon as I cured my masturbation malaise, I found myself feeling like sex with Donny was kind of, well, yawn-worthy. Yawn, he spanks me. Yawn, the butt plug. Yawn, the face fucking. Yawn, yawn, yawn. See Chelsea Yawn. Yawn, yawn, yawn.
I don’t like the bedroom boredom. I don’t like feeling like the onus of the burden is on me to figure out how to animate the coital coma, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. So last Saturday, as Donny and I were fucking, I told him to lay there on the bed. I slipped to my closet and rooted out my clamps. I squatted over him, and I attached one to my left nipple and then the other to my right.
“You look hott,” Donny said below me. I think I did, as I rode his fat-bellied cock to a yowling, head-snapping crescendo, my nipple clamps beating a tinny tattoo on my sternum, bouncing in time to my ever-more frenzied flopping on Donny’s dick.
But damn me if after I came, and after Donny removed the clamps from my nipples, I didn’t feel some small measure of shame that invariably comes with my trying something new, my pushing the envelope just a tiny bit in the general direction of my kinky pleasurable pain/sluttery.
Damn me if it all didn’t make me blush.
Which doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again, I would. In fact, maybe I’ll start…right now…without him…if only to be readier the next time the erotic muse taps me on the head and says, "Goose."