August 13, 1788
Mon Cher Donatien
I love that your name means “Gift.” For that is what you are to me. Not given to me by that god I unbelieved in so long ago. But given by the god you have become for me. For now I worship at your altar. Am a priestess to your religion. Bending like a willow to your gust, yielding myself to your whims.
You know my nipples have always been sensitive. The slightest brush undoes me. No matter how I try to retain my composure, my dignity. Full, round and pink, they betray me, betray what I am thinking and what I am feeling. I love when they harden, press against my blouse. Get your attention when we are out in public. When you cannot punish me for my harlot ways.
But today you sought to address that.
Wearing nothing but my rope brassiere, I knelt before you. The only place I ever want to be. My hair up in a bun. My arms behind my head, thrusting my charms out for your inspection. Nipples pert and betraying me again.
You came up from behind. Put your stool in place. Then sat down. I felt your breath as you leaned in close. It tickled the back of my neck. Then I felt your hands reach around and cup each breast from beneath. Your hands were warm. My face flushed.
Soft caresses moved to gently trace around each hardening bud. My mouth opened, soft moans escaped my slightly parted lips. Your right hand stopped. Disappeared. Then returned, but not empty. I felt the brush of the metal teeth.
The first clamp hovered above my right nipple. “I will only put these on…” you whispered. “If you show me you want them.” Then you waited. The warmth of your closeness, the hardness of the floor, the hopelessness of my situation… made me relent. I felt the hardness bud, swell fully. So, being the harsh gentleman, you kept your promise.
Less than a bite, more than a tweak, I felt the clover clamp close. It was a sharp sting that echoed below in my feminine places. The pain dulled to an ache, to a need. For liberation, for domination all at once. Your attentions turned my neglect breast. I heard you wet your finger in your mouth, then felt the wetness circle around my nipple. It hardened further in compliance. You immediately clamped it and let the chain drop. The weight was as heavy as it was desired.
“They are called clover clamps,” you explained. Always the teacher. I purchased these when I was last in Kobe.” I glance down at them. Admired their sparkle in the candlelight. Saw the symmetry of my suffering. Part of wanted to remove them, part of me wanted to tighten them. You had a third option.
I helplessly watched as you slipped your hand over the chain. Then you slowly raised the chain up before you began pressing outward. I watched as the slack tightened. Felt each clamp pull on its trapped flesh. My eyes closed. Tingles returned to unmentionable places.
“These are but one pair…” You brushed a loose bang from my eyes. “I have many more, and many more places to place them.” There was something about your voice, how you spoke when we played. No hostility, no arrogance. Just a simple patience that bordered on piety. As if you were a priest ministering to your flock. A wicked shepherd leading your lost lamb further into the blissful darkness.
For I had followed you home.
I love this story.
Oh my goodness. As if the story wasn’t titillating enough, you had to add that last line….
This is sensual beauty of the highest order, my friend. You take the scene and fly with it into the heavens. Love especially how you wrote of the respect he gives his sub, not hostile or arrogant but rather a piousness. Loved that ending. You write the scene with the delicately poetic brushstrokes of a true poet priestess.
John