i sit at the computer, the cursor blinking at me as i blink and try to focus.
what was i going to say?
Lost, lost is my thought, for all my attention focuses on the burning pain in my nipples.
it’s a fire, a conflagration of epic proportions. Abused at His beck and call last night, twisted and teased and tormented, until, enraptured, my body bowed and exploded for His pleasure, and mine.
but tenderized flesh can only take so much before it succumbs to the torment, and the little flames of pleasure become licks of fire, become a blazing inferno of pain that rise and wrap around my breasts.
i wear His pain like a brand.
‘hurts, Master’ i say when i call Him.
‘I feel your pain” He says. A heartbeat of silence passes. “no, wait, *I* don’t feel your pain…but I do *LIKE* it…”
heartless bastard i think.
so i sit and try to focus. sometimes the words win and i am transported to another place, a place beyond the pain, or perhaps through it.
Then i pause, attempt to gather my thoughts; but like sheets blowing about in the wind, they drift and snap here, there…and in losing my focus, i am found by the pain.
a breath drawn deeply causes ripples of hurt.
my room is cool, and in my short-sleeved shirt, a chill settles upon me. i sit and watch the goose-flesh creep up my arms, and then feel the answering rise on my tits, and the responding rise of my nipples, denying the heat of the hurt, and puckering tight with cold.
The bite of the clamps is so much worse then…the hardened flesh pinched inexorably tighter with the grasping rubber teeth, pulled earthward by the weighty chain. i am connected to my pain, by chain, by clamps, by His hand, His word.
“you write, little girl, you wear the clamps…”
i wear the clamps.
i breathe the pain deeply.