The aroma of Helen's special perfume preceded her into the dimly lit bedroom. The scent penetrated my nostrils; Tabu, her special perfume, the one she only wore on special occasions. Not when she just planned to have sex. She wore it only when she intended to be naughty. By association, a mere whiff of that particular odor was enough to give me an instant, raging hard on.
I was half asleep, dozing in bed, when my erection woke me up. Even asleep, the decadent aroma of her perfume got my organ going, and my rigid pecker woke me up completely. I hadn't expected this.
I sat up on the bed. Helen stood, at the door to our bathroom wearing a black, see through negligee. She is a smashing five foot, strawberry blonde, with large, C cup size breasts.
She glided over to the bed. The tip of my cock bounced against her flank as she sidled on to our queen size bed. She did not even pretend to get under the covers.
My arms encircled her body squeezing her to my body. I felt her succulent breasts, crushed against my chest. My lips sought hers. I found her mouth open and waiting. My lips sought her neck, and my nose poked at the angle of her jaw.
The perfume was stronger here. It flowed into my nose, a river of fire driven into my brain. She knelt on the bed; I felt her breath blowing softly on my ear.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
I knelt on the bed too, my thigh touched hers. My arms encircled her body, my hands slid over the translucent silky fabric of her negligee. Our lips, once again, locked in a mouth to mouth battle. Her tongue played a game of tag with mine. I heard the throaty sound of her breath, rasping in and out of her neck; in the dim light I saw the outline of her heavy breasts, rising and dropping unevenly, in time with her breathing. She was driving me nuts with desire.
I pulled her negligee over her head; I kept my shorts on. I just loved to have her naked in front, or beside me, while I remain fully dressed or, as in this case, with my shorts on. Of course, Helen hates to be naked while I am not. She never said why but I know that it makes her feel subservient, submissive, and she does not really like that. I fully expected her to reach for my underwear to pull it off right away, as was her custom.
Today it would be different.
Not only she did not reach for my shorts but, turning away from me, she melted her nude form into my arms. Her face turned, her lips sought my neck as our bodies, intertwined, curled around each other like snakes. My teeth bit the soft skin of her neck; I was rewarded by her sharp intake of breath, and the slow hiss, when she exhaled.
My hands slid to her breasts, admiring the solid, soft heft of them, the smooth skin, the pebbled areolas and, when I lightly pinched her nipples, the muted squeal of pleasure from her throat.
I knew she loved to have her breasts, and nipples, played with, even roughly. Indeed, this was the only area of her body where she allowed me to express, with a lot of restraint, my sadistic tendencies.
I squeezed her nipples harder.
She whimpered; her hands rose to hold mine against her globes. This is what Tabu meant, this was Helen being naughty.
My hands held, each, a soft, tender breast, between their splayed fingers, with Helen's hands, on top, keeping them there. I squeezed the firm flesh, enjoying how it felt under my grip.
"Harder," her throaty voice whispered in my ears.
I squeezed them harder, my fingers digging deep into the meat of her orbs.
"My nipples," she said, "pinch my nipples."
I pinched both nipples hard.
Her squeal now held some pain in it, in addition to her pleasure.
She continued to roll, one way and the other, in my arms. I felt her ragged breathing between my arms. I pinched her nipples even harder.
She squealed again, louder, but her hands remained, poised on mine, and she did not ask me to stop.
She knelt, between my spread thighs; my cock, poking out of my shorts, stroked her lower back. I could feel the cheeks of her ass, against the inside of my thighs. The thought of her gorgeous, firm butt, so close to my rod caused, as it always did, my cock to bounce against her spine.
Her hands squeezed mine.
"Pinch harder," she asked, her voice so gravelly it was almost unintelligible.
I pinched her nipples, as hard as I could.
She screamed. I felt her thighs opening and closing, like scissors. I heard her whimpers, short, staccato bursts of sound, quivering with desire.
"Harder," she almost screamed this time.
I could not pinch them any harder, between my thumb and index. She squealed again. It wasn't enough.
Her face turned towards me. She hid her face against my chest, her hands still holding mine against her breasts. Her breathing was so ragged I almost thought she was crying.
"Hurt me," she begged, "hurt them more."
I squeezed them, as hard as I could, but did not release them. When her squeal of pain and pleasure had died down, I said:
I twisted her nipples in a sudden, violent jerk.
Her scream was fabulous.
Her hands released mine and I saw them dive on to her pussy. My iron hard cock bounced against her skin, ready to burst. I heard a slurping sound from her sodden cunt, as her fingers went in. It was time, I thought, for the main event.
She didn't think so.
Her hands worked at her snatch with feverish intensity. She squirmed in my arms, whimpering in need.
"More!" she said, "give me more."
I twisted her nipples again, harder. She screamed again.
"Harder damnit!" she gasped. "Please, please, more."
I released her nipples.
"I can't do more with just my hands," I said.
She turned around, her breasts floating in front of me, her tortured nipples standing at attention on her areolas.
"Then use something!"
She lay on her back, her hands violently masturbating her pussy, her thighs closing over them rhythmically, with a whimper of raw need each time.
I thought for a second. I remembered a recent gift, one of those small multipurpose tools, the ones that fold on themselves and have screwdrivers, scissors and, what was germane at this time, a small set of pliers. It had been sitting on my dresser drawer for a while.
I opened the drawer, took it out, unfolded it and showed it to my wife. The light from the master bathroom ran across her face and I believe I saw her blanch when she saw the little pliers.
She removed her hands from her pussy, her thighs continued to scissor open and closed. She extended her arms on top of her head, crossing them at the wrists, holding the bars of the headboard.
"Tie my hands," she asked, "hurry."
On the wall, there was hanger where two of her caps hung. In addition, there was a scarf I'd brought her as a gift from a trip. I used that scarf to tie her wrists together, and to the headboard.
She squirmed on the bed all the time, pleading with need.
I straddled her thighs which moved under me, like the tentacles of an octopus. Her head thrashed from side to side.
I held one of her breasts in one hand. She stopped squirming.
I violently crushed her nipple with the pliers.
With a glorious scream she began to buckle under me. I still held her nipple, crushed between the jaws of the tool, when she began to roll her body again. The jaws bit deeply on the skin of her nipple, as well as pulling on it hard, as she rolled away from me. She continued to buckle under me, her hands opening and closing, her eyes, open, unseeing. I heard her heels, banging against the mattress. This was the most massive orgasm I'd ever witnessed from her. She began to come down from it, and I still had not released her nipple.
Her lips made a guttural noise. I thought she was choking on her own spit at first.
"Otherrrr!" she finally managed to say.
I was glad to oblige.
"You like to hurt me," It wasn't a question.
Helen stood in the bathroom observing her breasts on the mirror. The marks my fingers left on them, when they dug into her meat, radiated out from her areolas; dark pink sausages on her white skin. In the center of the pink areolas, the tortured nipples stood out in fiery red spotted, here and there, with dark spots where the steel jaws of the pliers had broken the skin.
From behind, I embraced her waist, my hands meeting under her belly button.
"I really did a number on them, didn't I?" I said. "But you asked for it."
She turned her face and kissed me. She touched her breast and grimaced.
"They still hurt," she said, "but yes, I asked for it."
"And came violently," she added.
"Be careful," she said, taking my hands and placing them over her sore mammaries.
Her lips kissed my neck.
"You do like hurting them, don't deny it."
"I don't," I answered, "deny it, I mean."
She was wearing only boy cut panties. She turned around to face me and supported her breasts with her hands.
"It hurt, a lot. But I can't deny that the orgasms were massive," she said.
"I'm glad you enjoyed them."
On the other hand, those two explosions left her so exhausted that she did not respond much when I finally had my turn at her yesterday. Not that I'm complaining. I almost creamed my shorts when I crushed her nipples with the pliers.
"I give them to you."
I looked at her in a stunned silence. Helen had always been reluctant to any hint of ownership in our relationship. Once, long ago, when her mother told her she belonged to me, she turned on her and stated that she belonged to no one. She was so firm and adamant about it that her mother had nothing more to say on the subject. Now, I thought I'd heard her say she was giving me her breasts.
"My breasts," she said, "I give them to you. They are yours." her hands proffered the twin orbs, as if they were two loaves of bread.
"You can do what you like with them; hurt them, if you wish, as you wish, when you wish, as much as you wish."
I could not believe my ears.
"Those were the best two orgasms of my life," she said, "I'd sure love to have more of those."
Now I understood. It would be hard, almost impossible for her to ask me to treat her breasts as I did yesterday; not with any kind of frequency. By "giving" them to me, the breasts, so to speak, were on my court. She would be forced to respond, to enjoy it, without admitting to her need. She could thus yield control, and save face.
"I see," I said. "What is my reward when that happens?"
She cocked her head to a side and smiled. She turned around, her back to me. She took my hands and placed them on her butt cheeks.
"Every time you give me an orgasm, from ... hurting my breasts," she said, "you may get yours, in my ass."
Wow! That was amazing. We'd had anal sex twice, years ago. She first denied liking it, but after a couple of years admitted that she had, indeed liked it but that she felt it was too degrading, and that it hurt anyway, so she refused to go there. Now, I was getting it as a bonus.
She picked up the bottle of Tabu from the drawer and placed it on the counter, in front of the electronic toothbrush.
"Just leave the bottle there, when you want to play with my breasts," she said.
"That way, I'll know to wear it, when I go to bed."
I did not take advantage of my new toys for a couple of days. I do not think Helen was disappointed; they needed time to heal, for the bruises to go away. I thought I detected a small, or not so small, measure of anxiety in her; perhaps a tad more attention to detail in her interactions with me. Receiving me, when I got back from work, with a glass of Bourbon on the rocks, for instance. Perhaps a wise approach to take with someone who owns two important and sensitive parts of your body.
I made a couple of purchases at an antique store that I thought would enhance our (my) pleasure.
On Thursday evening, I told her, after dinner.
"I shall want to torture your breasts tomorrow evening."
This time, I saw her face blanch. Her voice however was almost steady when she answered:
"Of course dear."
Dinner on Friday was red snapper in Habanero sauce with green rice; one of my favorite Mexican dishes. She wore a bouncy red mini skirt and a white bolero blouse. Half way through the snapper I said:
"Helen, remove your blouse and bra. I want to, open my appetite, so to speak."
Despite the shades being open on the dining room window, she stood up and without hesitation did as I ordered. The sight of her twin creamy globes spilling from her bra in front of me was gorgeous. While I enjoyed watching her eat her snapper topless, I developed some difficulty in swallowing, while trying to finish mine. She had set up a bucket of ice and Coronas by the side of the table. With the help of a third one, I managed to wash down my snapper. I limited Helen to a single beer.
"I don't want you too buzzed," I said, "Otherwise you might not appreciate all I am planning to do to your boobies."
"Yes," she said with a tinge of sarcasm, "I wouldn't want to miss anything."
The Breast Chair.
She followed me, nude, to the basement. I enjoyed making her remove her skirt and panties in the dining room, right in front of the window, shades wide open. That she did it without complaining showed me how much her submissive tendencies were blossoming on their own.
In the basement, I had her kneel in the carpeted floor. With her hands behind her back, her boobies thrust out from her chest, rising and falling with her breathing. I noticed how the nipples quivered from her excitement, or perhaps her fear.
"Cross your hands behind your back," I ordered.
I bound her wrists with an old silk scarf of hers. My hand caressed her back and slid slowly down the firm curve of her buttocks. I could now feel, as well as see, her trembling.
"Are you afraid?" I asked.
"Very much," she said, her voice barely under control.
I brought out my new acquisition. In France it was called a Prie Dieu.
Imagine a chair, with a narrow, padded seat, only an inch or two above the floor, and two poles framing the back that end, at the top with a flat shelf side. It was a device used in Church, mostly by women, who would kneel on the padded seat leaning on the back portion where they could place their prayer books on the shelf. As you may imagine, the shelf was at a perfect height for my purposes.
I had made a couple of improvements on the design. First, on the padded knee rest, I cut four narrow openings that now held two black leather straps.
Helen knelt on the Prie Dieu and I fastened the straps around her calves.
As she leaned against the support, her breasts rested naturally on the shelf. With a face full of apprehension, she looked up at me and whimpered.
I took two leather straps and looped them around the top of her thighs, attaching each thigh to the upright pole on each side. While I did this, my hands accidentally brushed the trembling lips of her kitty finding them already slick with her juices. One of my fingers slipped inside her hot tunnel. Her body shook with her need. The air around us was redolent with the smell of her perfume and now, with her own musk.
"I don't want you to get tired," I said, "you'll be there for a while."
Two tears quivered in silence on her lower eyelids.
On the shelf, her creamy twin mounds of flesh craved attention.
I picked up a riding crop.
"We'll warm them up a little."
I began to strike at her breasts, not too hard. She yelped with surprise at the first stroke, and screamed for every other. On purpose, I did not tell her how many strokes she would get. I struck her breasts until a simple pattern of parallel lines covered them.
I stood in front of her.
A torrent of tears flowed down her cheeks as she looked up at me. My cock strained inside my pants.
"From now on," I said, "whenever I order you to the basement, you will kneel on the "breast chair" and fasten yourself with the straps."
I struck her breasts with the crop, hard.
"What will you do?"
"I will kneel on this breast chair and fasten the straps on my calves and thighs."
"Excellent," I said.
The shelf was slightly concave so it curved itself around her body. On each end, and in the center, I had drilled a hole. I brought out a similar flat piece of wood that I had cut and carved to match the shelf. It had matching holes too. I placed it on top of her breasts; I did not fail to notice her whimper as the rough wood on the bottom came into contact with her bruised bosoms.
Her eyes almost popped out of their sockets when I pushed a long threaded screw through each hole and placed a large nut on the top end of each screw. As I began to quickly tighten the screws with my ratcheting nut driver, I said:
"Since this is the first time, we shall not use teeth."
"You should thank me," I added.
Between whimpers, as her breasts were crushed between the two wooden shelves, she managed to squeal:
The long handle of the ratcheting driver made it easy to tighten the nuts until her areolas stuck out of the front of the device and I could see the wood cutting into the exposed flesh. She screamed until she ran out of breath. I stopped.
I heard her labored breathing and walked around her, enjoying the sight of her kneeling body, fastened to the breast chair, and of her breasts, squeezed between the boards, like peanut butter on bread.
Her breathing became more and more ragged. I wondered.
I knelt in front of her and looked straight into her eyes. Her eyes were open but I doubted she could see me.
I reached forward to touch her between her legs.
I had thought to put clothespins on her nipples now but, in her state, I doubted she would even feel them. Fortunately, I had some other things in my box.
I picked up two alligator clamps that I had cut off a set of jumper cables.
She'll sure notice these ones, I said to myself.
Her screams filled the basement for a long time. When they died down, I knelt in front of her. Her lungs heaved like a bellows and her breath came in ragged grunts.
With my fingers I flicked one clamp; she yelped, and her breathing got faster. I flicked the other.
"Nooo," she yelped again and breathed even faster.
I touched her pussy. It was gushing.
She was ready.
I began to flick one clamp, then the other one, alternating at random between them. Her yelps became screams, then grunts, then screams again, until her whole body shook with the spasms that raked her body.
I saw her juices squirt from her pussy.
I let her come down.
With her breasts captured in the vise of the breast chair, and her nipples crushed between the jaws of the clamps, it took her a while to regain her senses. Every now and then, another spasm racked her body.
"Was it good?" I asked.
"Yes," she whimpered.
"Now for my reward," I said.
My hand, coated with jelly slid between her ass cheeks.
"When I'm done."
There was no pleasure in her screams when my rigid cock forced its way into her anus. She was willing but her ass said otherwise. When I finally impaled her on my shaft, and the hilt encountered the tender skin of her asshole, for so long forbidden to me, I could not contain a cry of triumph.
Here she was, in my arms, with my cock buried deep into her rear entrance. I held her chin in my hand and felt her tremors around my shaft at the same time that her tears fell on my hand.
I began to thrust at her backside, to pound on her ass seeking my release. With every thrust, a scream, or a whimper of pain greeted my ears. I felt my rod get harder, and larger, inside her body. Her fingers, still bound behind the small of her back, caressed my belly.
I pulled out of her; I felt the cold air on my rod, in contrast with the heat of her bowels.
She turned her face around, "Go ahead; tear me apart if you must."
I rammed my cock back inside of her, her screams splitting my ears.
I did not last long.
I stood up, behind her kneeling body.
Her head lay silent, on top of the shelf that crushed her breasts. Her arms, still crossed at the wrists, were bound behind her back. Her thighs, bound by the straps to the poles of the breast chair, allowed a peek between the cheeks of her ass. I saw the drops of my come, dripping out of her rear, tinged with the red drops of her blood. I continued to look, to savor, to drink in the sight of my wife, drained, defeated, with all her dignity taken from her, her pride dripping slowly out of her ass.
I walked to the front of the chair where her areolas, purple by now, peeked swollen, between the twin shelves of wood that crushed her tits. The two toothed clamps stretched her nipples obscenely. Her eyes were closed. She cried with soft whimpers.
I brought her a glass of water with a straw that I held to her lips. She drank greedily of it.
"Thank you," she said; her voice weak.
I released her wrists. Her hands flew to her breasts, but she could not reach them, still crushed between the leaves of the chair. Her fingers sought her nipples touching the clamps instead. She screamed when her touch caused the dangling clamps to swing and further pull on her nips.
Her eyes looked at me as she held on to the poles.
"I shall take the clamps out first," I said, "It will be worse than when they went on."
"I know," she whispered, "I am ready."
Her hands grasped the poles harder.
We lay together in bed, her breasts covered in ice bags, spooning.
She told me how it was, for her, and my cock, resting between her cheeks came to attention to listen to her story.
It found its welcome in the depths of her moist pussy, as we made tender love, long into the night.
They looked terrible in the morning, purple and swollen to almost twice their size. In the kitchen, Helen replaced the ice cubes from the zip lock bags that lined the towels that made up her makeshift bra. I embraced her, careful not to touch her breasts, and kissed her lips.
"You are going to ruin your toys if you do this too often," she said.
"The deal is still on then?"
"They are yours," she said, "What you do with them is your business."
"How about this?" I asked reaching for her ass with my hand.
She twisted away, taking it out of my reach.
"There is only one way you get that."
"Next weekend then," I promised.
"Whenever you want," she answered.
She kept her word.
Review This Story || Email Author: Polecat