Nipple Clamps & the Pleasurable Pinch

My nipple clamps: I have a love/hate/love relationship with them. (Although to be honest, sometimes it’s more of a hate/love/hate relationship.) I am myself often profoundly passionately ambivalent, and my nipple clamps embody this dyadic intensity with exceptional and excruciating precision.

They’re a simple machine, really. Just two alligator clips yoked together by a slender chain. Some nipple clamps seem kinder with their adjustable screws set in their metal centers, but it’s a sham kindness really, for where the lies the gentleness so rests the cruelty. You can open the alligator mouths wider by manipulating the screw, but you can also make their jaws shut tight. Too wide and the clamps slip off your nipples erect and hard as pencil erasers. Too tight and, well, you can imagine.

Or can you? There is a fine line between pleasure and pain, as has been noted with such repetition as to render the aphorism nearly banal. The nipple clamp surfs that fine crest. It limns the line, as much as it blurs it. Because the simple and inescapable fact is that when you—or someone you trust—carefully places first one nipple, casually rubbed to tiny tumescence, and then the other within those small alligator jaws, something painful and something pleasurable will happen.

The best way I can describe it is this: the nipple clamp draws the shortest distance—a straight somatic line—between your nipple and your clit (or, presumably, your cock). The pinch of the nipple sends the electric shock of new recognition to your more pleasurable bits, and even as the nipple hurts, even as it screams in its small silent voice, you’ll find an opposite and corollary  reaction occurring in your genitals. It has a nearly mathematical beauty, and it feels as perfect, as frustrating, as inexorable as algebra.

Nipple clamps do more than shock anew the pleasure bits. They adorn you. Nipples beg to be dressed, poking out as they do, whether perched on the modest slopes of a flat breast or the abundance of a full breast. The nipple clamp, shiny, glittering in candle light or street light, looks beauteous, the slight weight of the chain tugging the breasts down in graceful tandem. The chain swings gently between the breasts as the body moves. It begs to be pulled.

The thing about me and my nipple clamps is that when I put them on, or when they are put on me, their tiny bite wakes some sleeping beastie. It’s a feral pain, and make no mistake about it, it is pleasurable. The clamps rouse me from complacence. They intensify everything I feel—good, bad, and exquisite. They make an ordinary round of rogering something more visceral, more total, and more impassioned.

Which is not to say, as I began, that I always love them. The nipple clamps are not for me an every day thing. They are a treat and they are a trick. They are something that I both look forward to and that I dread. They make every fucking moment that much more immediate, and they can not be removed fast enough once I, exhausted and wrung pleasure wet and sighing, have come unto completion.