Mister brought me tea this morning and I was thrilled. He rarely treats me to tea in bed! Then, I so them. Attached to the handles of the cups. The Clovers. I gasped, terrified. He just smiled and told me to drink my tea, which I did, aware of the chain connecting the two cups. We have a rule, one of my suggestion, that only Mister is allowed to touch His toys. Only he can use them, only he decides when to stop using them. I can ask or, more likely, beg for mercy, but it is totally his choice to grant it or not. I knew that once he attached those evil Clovers to my nipples, I will have no choice but to accept them for as long as he decides. Yes, I made up this rule, but today I’m almost regretting it. Almost.

He’s actually been training my nipples for several weeks now with the ultimate goal of being able to endure the Clovers. Each night after dinner, while we are watching television, he clips my nipples. Five minutes on, five minutes off. He began with tweezer clips and kept the tension light, gradually increasing the tightness. Then he moved on to clothes pins, the clamps, then weighted clamps. He repeated the on/off routine for about two hours each and ever night. During the day he would use his fingers, his lips, his teeth on them. Now, my nipples are much tougher but just as sensitive. All it takes is a simple flick with his tongue or a brush across my breasts (even through clothing!) and I dissolve into a wet, obedient subby.

“You’re ready.”

“I don’t know,” I hedge.

His eyes get hard, as does his cock. “I do.”

I’ve finished my tea, and he his. He keeps the tray on my lap, removes the clips from the delicate cups and puts first one then the other on my delicate nipples. I clench my hands, cry out, pant. THEY FUCKING HURT!!! He lifts the tray from me and swipes one finger across my slit, and laughs. Oh yeah. I’m wet. Dripping in fact.

“Spread your legs.”

I do so, tip my head back and squeal. I can’t stop. Between his clever tongue drawing circles around my clit, his finger in my hole, and the awful pressure on my nipples, I explode. Over and over again. He laughs, pleased with me, and releases my nipples. I scream with the pain of it, but also a bit from the loss of the pain. I’m crying now, a blubbering mess, thanking him over and over again. He holds me – just that – until the storm inside of me becomes a summer breeze.

“Mister?”

“Yes, my love.”

“I love you.”