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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP: A Little Nipple Play {Maureen Lycaon} (MF, Fdom, bd, sm, no sex)
Date: Sat,  7 Jul 2001 00:10:06 -0400
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A LITTLE NIPPLE PLAY

@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, September 2000, July 2001.
All rights reserved under the Berne Convention. This
story may be distributed freely via electronic means,
provided no money or other consideration is charged
and that the story remains intact as posted, including
these notes and the headers. You may also print out a
hard copy for personal use. All other rights reserved
under the Berne Convention. Charging viewers for
access to this file is *expressly forbidden*.

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://vcl.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Artists/Maureen/Stories/Web/index2.html
Note the new URL!

 

A LITTLE NIPPLE PLAY

By Maureen Lycaon



"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 reached over and ran my fingers through 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," I told him.

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 comfortable bed, a footstool, 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 black pillar candles, which I'd
lit for atmosphere, but no other light entered the
space.

As I sat on the edge of the bed and watched, 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
graceful 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
peach-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 uplifted and stretched around it, wrists cuffed
behind. His ankles were also cuffed, holding his feet
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 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 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-bologna 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 the aureoles, 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 post, 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 the cabinet 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 watched me, 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, and 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
again, 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,
but he wouldn't give me a moan or whimper.

His scent had 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. 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 had the jaws seize 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 and groaned 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 fierce 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. Oh, well.

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 returned to him,
then slathered some of the stuff on my fingers 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
though 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
stroked 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 myself 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 a 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 of
my shoe. 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, but I
could sense him relaxing just a little. 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." More of the tension
drained from his body.

When he had finished, kneeling up to drop the sponge
in the bucket of soiled water, I gently removed the
collar around his neck.

"Get in the shower now, love," I told him. "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. As he cleaned himself, I helped,
rubbing the soapy washcloth over his back.

Spitz 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. 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.

"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.

"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 went back 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
lifted 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 . See the author's notes at the
top for the URL to more of my stories.


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