On Nipples, Pain and Pleasure
"So, I decided to make this appointment. She is very famous, from what I have been able to gather on the usual boards. Only thing is it's an "incall" on travel. You know, going to a hotel room. There's two problems with this. One, I can't scream. That one is obvious. The second one is not: My only one in-hotel-room session was not great. Actually, it was kind of not good at all. So I was worried. BUT, there was something about the communication with Her, combined with her obvious reputation, that made me think that this was going to be special.
For how many times I have done this, it always happens. This time it did again: my heart beat goes way up at the precise time that I raise my hand to knock at the door. It never fails, heartbeat, heavy breathing, flushed. Referring back to an earlier thread, I was like a high school (middle school for the precocious ones) kid on his very first date. Every time. Including that time.
She opened the door and waved me in. As you may know, or will after you read this, I remember every microscopic detail of a session. It's this hyperacuity that ancestral reflexes generate when I am subject to severe pain. But strangely, perhaps because there was no pain, or no threat of pain, I can't remember if any words were exchanged. I think it was limited to the minimum necessary to get me to change into the proper attire to stand before Her, meaning wearing nothing.
She stared at me directly in the eyes, in fact she never lower her stare during the entire span of this story. Not saying a word. Slowly moving Her fingers toward my nipples. More precisely, moving Her nails toward my nipples.
Now here is a phenomenon that I find fascinating: When I feel apprehensive, scared, because I know something bad is going to happen, I concentrate, completely involuntarily on some completely irrelevant detail. In this case, it was manicure. Her nails were insanely long. You know, the kind that's so long that it curves inward. The tip of the nail was a perfect parabola (or ellipse?). Sharp in one dimension, perfectly smooth in the other. So somehow my brain already in full-fledged defense mode kept analyzing the extent of care that must be required to preserve such perfect nails.
It dissected the fact that each nail's surface was so perfectly polished that its specularities made it look as if they were made of metal. As you can tell, despite my brain's effort to distract me from the danger, it could not help but circling back to the fact that razor-sharp, perfectly-shaped, nails were closing in on me.
She closed down the fingers a little bit, very, very slowly. Just enough to make me feel their sharpness. The tip of the parabola (or is it an ellipse?) pushing into the skin just enough to make me understand that they did not just shine like metal claws, they felt like it too. She never moved her eyes from mine. She wanted to make sure that I knew that she would be aware of my every reaction.
Two fingers enclosed each nipple. The razor-nails somehow at just the right curvature to converge on the little bit of pink flesh. She closed them. Hard. All the way. Fast. Staring in my eyes to enjoy the reaction.
I love to scream. It's such a release, such a feeling of freedom, you know. Well, it was a hotel room and in an exceptional moment of lucidity I managed to clench my teeth and grunt. Well, even the grunt was very loud I am afraid. She laughed. I guess there is such a thing as a sadistic laugh. She was not making fun of me. I guess She was having the top equivalent reaction (laughing) to my sub reaction of grunting (screaming).
She did not just close the nails and then release. She kept the pressure on. She stopped laughing and turn to a very severe expression as she pushed Her nails further into the flesh.
My brain went crazy into self-defense mode. At that point it was just trying to prevent me from going insane. It tried all kinds of distractions. It noticed that she had insanely long, beautiful hair. I mean longer than I have ever seen I think. So it tried to wander off into various hair care issues to distract me from the pain.
It did not work. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced.
As if this torture was not enough, She started to pull in addition to continue the closing down of the razor claws, sorry the nails. At that point, my brain tried another diversion: It pondered why it is that there was no bleeding yet. There should be bleeding, it was saying, as it felt by now like the nails had cut deep into the flesh.
She must have sensed that I was trying to move focus away from the pain. Or perhaps it's just experience. After all, she is famous, obviously from Her amazing experience. No matter, at the precise time that I felt like I could handle the pain she quickly rotated the claws. Turning the nipples a full 180 in a fraction of a second.
Like many men, my lachrymal glands are challenged. It very difficult for me to cry real tears. It is very frustrating. It would be such a release to be able to really cry. But no, all I can do is "dry-cry". I did dry-cry like a baby on a few occasions before. Once down South when a Lady had me all tied up on my knees and simply would not stop with that crop-like instrument. Another time only a few blocks from my home, laying belly down on a nice leather table. You know, the kind that has conveniently the legs and the arms carved so you know where you're supposed to be laying down for the supplice. In both cases, I so, so wished I could have cried torrents of real tears. Same thing happened that time. As She was staring in my eyes, I so regret that She could not see them shimmering with real tears, showing what I was really feeling at that time.
What I was feeling was extreme pain, but more importantly it was complete abandon. The feeling that I belonged to Her. The nascent screaming desire for Her to do the most horrible things to this useless object that my body had become.
There is another thing that I was feeling. And I know that she knew I was experiencing this feeling. It was a feeling of pleasure. Yes pleasure. Radiating from down below, moving through a joyous erection on the way up. She knew. She knew that I was totally confused as I did not want to ever end the delicious wave of pleasure and at same time begged for the pain to stop. But if the pain stopped, so would the pleasure. The Masochist's Dilemma. She knew that. She was playing with it. She kept smiling and looking into my eyes.
This was only two minutes into a two hour session.
It was a good session."
—posted by ScreamAlot on Max Fisch, April 2015