Content Warning: consensual pain play, nipple clamps, sensation play, kink honorifics including “Daddy,” passing mentions of caregiver-little dynamics, mentions of depression and stress
Daddy says, “Let’s make it better.”
It doesn’t matter what’s wrong, in this story. Maybe I slept badly, maybe I’ve just had a stressful day, maybe my constant low-level depression is creeping in again. But something is wrong, and I can’t quite pull myself out of it.
Sometimes I feel like I’m a lot of work. I’ve accepted that I’m a little, that I’m submissive, but it’s hard to remember that it’s okay to be needy as well. I spent a lot of my life trying to be The Cool Girl, low-maintenance and chill about all things, feeling guilty if I inconvenience anyone. The truth is I’m not low-maintenance. I’m a cheap date, I love going for drives and maybe a gas station hot dog, sure. But sometimes I feel like I’m a creature of too many emotions (that is to say, any) or in need of too much validation (again, any). Sometimes I feel like Damien deserves someone easier to be with.
But Daddy is still here. It’s not always easy for them, either, because they also struggle, because they’re also a mere mortal. But they’re still here. And they still always want to know, “How do we make it better?”
Sometimes it’s cuddles on the couch and a movie, sometimes it’s a drive and a long conversation. Sometimes I just need to recharge, or to play.
And sometimes…that’s not enough. Sometimes my depression tips into apathy, or my stress just settles into every limb until I feel like I might fly apart. Sometimes, I need a total brain reset.
So, it doesn’t matter why, but in this story, I’m not doing well. We watched something on YouTube, something fun, and somehow all it did was make me feel worse.
So, they say, as they so often do: “Let’s make it better.” They look at me, unhappy, probably in need of a shower, definitely in need of something. “Go into the bedroom, and take off your shirt.”
I can say no, but I don’t. I don’t want to. They’re giving me directions, and that gives me something to focus on, and that’s what I need more than anything.
I go, as I’m told. My shirt comes off, as I’m told. I sit on their bed, and I wait.
They don’t go to the wall of impact implements, as I might expect. They go to our set of plastic drawers, where we keep our smaller toys. They rummage around for a while.
“Should I use this?” they ask themselves. “Or this? Hmm.”
I swallow hard, not knowing what they’re looking at, but intrigued.
Finally, they approach the bed, putting on some loofah gloves. They’re supposed to be for exfoliating or whatever it is most people do, but for us, they’re an inexpensive kink toy. Scratching is one of my favorite sensations, and always sends me right into orbit.
“I’m going to play with these for a while,” they tell me. “On your back, at first. And then you’re going to turn over, and then, when I’m done,” they say, “you’re going to wear these.”
They lift up the nipple clamps. They’re connected by a sparkling chain, to add some decoration, to add some weight. We don’t use them often, for the very simple reason that they hurt.
“When these are on,” they continue, “you’re going to put your shirt back on, and go out to the living room. I’m going to masturbate, and you’re going to wait. And when I’m done, you can take them off, and take care of yourself. Understood?”
What they say is Understood but what they mean is, Is this okay? Consent is always key, but asking consent doesn’t have to be boring. Asking consent can be its own kind of foreplay, a taste of what’s to come, if I want it.
I want it.
“Do I have to wear them the whole time?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” they say. “As long as you can handle it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Okay, then,” they say, and put the clamps down. For now. “You have your instructions.”
I lay face-down. My nipples are untouched, but they’re sensitive, suddenly, against the soft plush of their comforter. Part of me still doesn’t feel great, I admit. My movements are maybe a little sluggish.
But I’m interested. And that’s a good start.
There is no further warning. There’s cool air on my back, and then a rough glide of glove over my spine. And for a moment, I’m not sad or tired or whatever I am.
My mind is just a sparkling, starry swirl of Yes, this! and nothing else can take hold.
I let out a sound—maybe it’s a squeak, maybe it’s a moan. They let out a laugh. “Shh,” they tell me. “You don’t want the neighbors to hear you, do you?”
“No, sir,” I say, and they drag their palm over my skin and I let out another sound, and earn another laugh.
“Don’t make me get the gag,” they say, and then they do it again.
They stroke my spine, and trace along my shoulder blades. They drag their hand over the shape of my ribs, and play connect-the-dots with the moles decorating my back. I try to keep quiet, like they say, but I fail, and that’s okay, too.
They swat my ass, once on each side. Through my pajama pants, through the thick gloves, it doesn’t hurt, but I let out another sound, and in the end, as much as they like teasing me about the neighbors, they love the sounds I make. They love making me react.
“Okay,” they say. “Time to turn around.”
I do, and sigh. My back doesn’t hurt, but it’s sensitive, and I can tell where they’ve been when my skin touches the comforter again.
But now they’ve got a fresh expanse to work with, and so they do. They’re an artist by trade; they’re an artist now, tracing abstract lines onto the canvas of my skin. Their hand curves slowly, lovingly, slightly painfully over my round belly. It describes the shape of my breasts. It scrubs too hard over one nipple, and I let out a whine, which only makes them do it to the other.
We label our dynamic nonsexual, in the traditional sense. But sometimes, the line between sex and kink and whatever else we do is blurred, which we both know, which we both appreciate. Nonsexual doesn’t mean not erotic.
“I’m wet, Daddy,” I say, and I’m a little embarrassed to voice it so plainly. I know they won’t—can’t—do anything about it. I don’t expect them to. But I still know they want to know, because even if they don’t fuck me, they own me. All of me. In times like this, more than ever.
“I know,” they say, and grin at me. “But you’re still going to have to wait.”
And they pick up the clamps. The jeweled chain catches the light, clinks softly against itself, and I swallow hard.
“Are you ready?” they ask.
I can say no. I can tell them they’ve done enough, that they made me better. That my stomach is all butterflies, and my skin is singing. That whatever was wrong is long forgotten.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, and close my eyes, knowing what’s to come.
“Good Pommy,” they tell me, as only they do. “You can do it.”
And they’re right. I can.
I brace myself for pain as they affix the first clamp. But I never remember quite how it feels, can never quite anticipate. And when it pinches the sensitive flesh, I’m never prepared.
“Ow,” I say, helpfully as ever.
The pinching it never seems to dull, and I can’t seem to adjust. It hurts, and it stays hurting.
“That’s the idea,” they say cheerfully, and they attach the other.
Twin pain. Neither eclipses the other, and neither seems to settle down. Each moment is the same high-pitched, delicious agony as the first moment when they’re put on.
Or so I think. They help me to sit up, and the weight of the chain drags them down. You’d think I’d have expected it, but I never do. I breathe hard, trying to adapt, but I don’t.
They bring over my shirt. It’s a soft, vintage-style, over-washed t-shirt, with the Beatles walking across my breasts. It would be soft on my slightly raw skin, normally.
But I put it on, and if it soothes the skin of my back, I don’t notice. The very light weight of the fabric only presses against the clamps, against my sensitive nipples.
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Go on,” they say, unsympathetic. “Go back to the living room. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
I walk out of our bedroom. Each step makes my breasts bounce, ever-so-slightly. And each bounce presses my aching nipples into the fabric. Each bounce sends the chain swinging. Each bounce is a fresh, sharp pain, added on to the constant, lingering pain. Each bounce is another challenge: can I endure this?
I cross the back windows. The curtains are open for the cats’ sake, which is the real reason they had me put on the shirt—the torture is just a fun bonus. I know that, if someone were to see me in person, the shirt wouldn’t really disguise what was happening. The clamps aren’t subtle, and they leave a noticeable, unnatural shape in the fabric. But it covers me enough that I don’t feel the need to close the curtains, that the sunlight can fall in.
Fuck, these hurt.
I flatter myself that I have a pretty high pain tolerance. I can handle a paddle for a long time, or even a whip. I love pain, and I love that I can take pain. I love my ability to endure, and I leave a spanking session pleased and proud, and admire any welts or bruises or tenderness as long as they last.
But fuck, these hurt.
I know safety. I know to take them off if things go numb, or if fifteen minutes elapse. Damien knows that, too. And if I take them off, I won’t be in trouble. If I tell them, “It was too much, Daddy, I’m sorry,” they’ll tell me, “It’s okay, I know, you did so well!”
But I don’t. I sit at my computer, and read some smut, and I hurt. And at no moment, not a single instance, do my breasts let me forget what we’re doing.
Partway through, I decide to get together aftercare snacks. We’ve both found that we feel better, after kink or masturbation, if we have something to eat, of course. Expenditure of energy will do that to you. A couple of chocolates should do it, so I stand up and head to the kitchen.
And once again, each step bounces, and the clamps seem to tighten.
This was, I think, maybe not the best idea. But Daddy will be happy if I do it, if I remember that we both need things. My drive to be a good girl, to do something for them, outweighs the pain. I make my way, step by agonizing step, across the living room, to the candy jar on the kitchen counter. I fumble with shaking hands to open it, and extract some Hershey’s Kisses.
By the time I make it back to our desks, all the way across our small, open-plan apartment, I’m actually gasping. I put their snacks on their desk, come back to mine, drop them on, and sit down, too hard, and I actually let out a moan.
It hurts like fuck, and fuck it feels good.
Later, Damien tells me they heard me moaning, from behind the closed door, from under the sound of their vibrator.
It feels like forever, sitting there, waiting for my turn. No one’s touched me between my legs, but tell that to my clit, which is just as sensitive as my nipples, at this point, whenever I shift in my chair. No one’s touched me, but God I wish someone would. Me. I’ll do it.
But the curtains are open and, more importantly, Daddy told me to wait. And I do.
It feels like forever, but of course I’m watching the clock, and maybe five minutes elapse, between them attaching the clamps and them coming out of the room, smiling. They’re asexual, and they aren’t interested in sex with anybody in person, but an orgasm is still a good thing for their body, and their mood, and their mental health.
And they do love making me react.
“Okay,” they say. “Go on. Take those off before you do anything else. Have fun.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I say.
I go into the bedroom, and close the door, and yank off the shirt, which is an extremely stupid thing because it tries to yank the clamps right off my nipples. They’re still attached—the clamps, I mean—but the half-inch or so that they were dragged along feels like fire, and I swear to God I almost have the worst, most painful, most incredible orgasm that it’s possible to have, without going anywhere near my genitals. I don’t, but it feels like a very, very near thing.
I take off the clamps, and there’s a fresh pain as blood rushes to the place that’s been under so much stress, both pain and relief.
I don’t bother with a dildo, don’t bother with anything fancy. I strip off my pants, grab the Silver Bullet that’s so reliable lately, and I make myself come until I feel like I’m going to collapse.
And then I’m done. Turning off the vibrator leaves the room in silence.
Inside my head is silence, too. It’s not the ecstatic, sparkling, galactic blankness from the middle of a kink scene. It’s not the silence of apathy.
It’s just quiet. Peaceful. Comfortable.
When I can stand again, I put on my shirt. My nipples are a little raw still, but they’re all right, and the shirt really is soft against them, now that they aren’t being actively tormented. I come out.
“Hey,” they say, gently, cheerfully. “How was it?”
I pick up my chocolate. “It was good. Thank you, Daddy.” I unwrap it, and take a bite. “My nips still hurt, though.” I laugh a little.
“Oh, well,” they say. “Let’s go back in the bedroom. Get your candy.” They pick up the lotion. “We’ll go make it better.”
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