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.