"I want to put nipple clamps on you."

And so it begins.

He was thinking about me last night.
Obsession can go both ways.
We exchanged a few little messages on and off during the evening.
But I know,
I know,
that he was listening to the playlist he compiled for me.
The one that begins with My heart belongs to Daddy.

And this morning.

I sent my morning greeting, with avowals of devotion and schedule for the day.
And then this:

(Time to put this sweet, soft, treasure of yours in the nice, warm shower and wash under those pale, soft, tits...)

He does love the soft underside of my breasts. He doesn't hurt them. He strokes them, relishing their pale, soft vulnerability.

About an hour later came his reply:

I want to put nipple clamps on you.

I was with friends at that point. I was sitting with friends around a table loaded with waffles and eggs and bacon and Westphalian ham and strawberries and raspberries and blueberries and cappucino and so many other wonderful things and suddenly I had this urge to check my phone. Surreptitiously. Under the table. And there was this message.

I want to put nipple clamps on you.

And then I was in two places at once. I was with my friends, in their home, sitting around a table loaded with food in a roomful of windows, bathing in light, and then I was in that place. That other place. A place of surrender and fear and pain and love where I will suffer things I don't want to experience. And will not consider escape.

Once.
I've experienced nipple clamps just once.
With Motorcycle Man.

I was terrified of them. I remember writing about that in comments on the blog that Discerning Dom wrote as the English Gentleman. I learned about pain as the philosopher pinched my nipples. I learned about the difference between erotic pain and real pain as he slowly pinched my nipples between his fingers harder and harder. And this kind of pain I loved. It hurt and it pulled me to it.

There is a passage in my story that was published in Best S/M Erotica Volume 3 which speaks of the sadist's relationship with my nipples:

Like a boy driven to pull the wings off elegant butterflies, your fingers inexorably move to her nipples. A normal man would have fondled her breasts, cupped them, circled his hands gently around them before pressing gently in on the hardening nipples. You are who you are. Like a rabid lobster, you grab each nipple, pinching, digging your nails in, and then twisting them as far as they will go and then one notch farther. She gasps, jerks, and screams, jolted out of her illusion of intimacy into the reality of an intimacy much deeper than she had ever known before you snared her.

But that, at least, has his touch, that direct connection between our bodies, between our eyes, because in the story he is spooning behind her, reaching around to seize her breasts. In truth, till now, he has always wanted my face in front of his, my eyes linked with him, so he could read the pain in my eyes, through my eyes, and rejoice in the intimate union of predator and victim.

It is another form of intercourse.

This, however, will be torture.

He has always wanted to torture me.

I want to put nipple clamps on you.

They scare me, Daddy.

I'm sure they do, my pet. And that excites me, as does the thought of those perfect, soft pink little nipples being bitten into by cold sharp cruel steel. The idea is making me hard.

Daddy?
I'm in that place, Daddy...
Those words...

I know, angel. And precious? Daddy does not mean the specifically-designed-for-play kind of clamps. He means the custom-made, alligator-clips on a chain type. They'll be quite painful when put in place.Daddy will be able to feel the chain against his legs while Baby is blowing him, and then they will be extra painful when he pulls them off his baby girl.

And so it begins.
And so it continues.
Happy new year.