by Cate Robertson
(07/30/03)

I lay curled naked in Jack's lap as we cooled down after a pleasantly strenuous afternoon. The children were with grandparents for the weekend. We liked to take lengthy advantage of their absences.

He was rubbing my breasts. "Did you read that article in the paper yesterday? That study showing that a small percentage of women can reach orgasm just from nipple stimulation."

I winced. "I certainly wouldn't be one of them."

"You might be wrong, darling. Lots of those women described their nipples as exceptionally sensitive. Like yours."

My nipples were always ultra-sensitive. I recall running home from school on windy days, desperate to get to my room so I could peel off my trainer bra and warm my aching little mounds with my palms, rubbing fire into my chilled nubs. Often I ended up sprawled across the bed with my hands in my panties, grinding my girly hips like a stripper, enjoying my first orgasms.

In high school, boys would loose the clasp of my bra to release my bounty into their clutches, but I’d recoil at their eager mouths. "Don't kiss it!" I’d hiss between clenched teeth, my spine stiff, my thighs braced. Later I allowed my lovers, and finally Jack, to kiss and fondle my breasts -- but only as long as my nipples were off-limits. The minute their fingers or lips got too close, I’d cringe.

The problem intensified with my first pregnancy. I wanted to breastfeed, but I knew I couldn't bear a baby's wet mouth. The pre-natal nurse suggested with a conspiratorial smile that we try "toughening up" my nipples by allowing Jack to scuff and suck them. I didn't last ten seconds before I bucked him off. Ten seconds of paradise, he said. I felt so guilty.

I’d watch my best friend, Laura, with her baby's head clamped to her melon-sized breast. When the baby came up for air, Laura's nipple, long and brown and oozing milk, would slide momentarily from its dripping mouth and Laura's eyes would roll trance-like back into her head, until the red-faced infant -- blissful little drunkard! -- would mash his nose into her teat again, gasping, bubbling, chewing blindly. Laura would sit through this with a beatific expression on her face.

I’d squirm in misery. "Doesn't that hurt?"

She’d shake her head dreamily. "No. It feels incredible."

For my son's sake, I gave breast-feeding the Old School Try. Every two hours for two punishing weeks, I let him attack my poor nipples with his steel-trap gums. He’d chomp himself to furious and unsatisfied exhaustion at every feeding.

"Be patient," said the nurse. "Let him suck. The sucking will stimulate your milk flow."

As soon as his voracious little mouth latched on to my inflamed nipples, my hair would stand on end and my feet would flutter in agony -- even while my hips squirmed. The squirming, I imagined, was some kind of autonomic distraction-response to the torture.

As soon as we put him on the bottle my milk came in. I spent another week of misery, bending over the sink while my distended, aching nipples spurted out the contents of my bloated breasts.

In tears, desperate to relieve my engorgement, I’d grit my teeth, squeeze, and pull hard. After these sessions of self-milking, I‘d end up flushed and incredibly horny. Jack would pull me to him, his face at my neck, breathing, "Darling, you look fucking gorgeous."

Needless to say, my next two babies were bottle-fed from birth. Much later, although I could sail unflinchingly through mammograms, it would take me a week to summon the courage to face the clinical breast exam. The split-second at the end, when the doctor would yank a nipple up between his thumb and forefinger to give it a pinch and a twist, always jolted me. Twice.

"So," I said to Jack with some trepidation, "did the article suggest any remedies for ultra-sensitive nipples?"

He leaned over to retrieve the black silk scarves we use for love-play from the foot of the bed. He said softly, smiling, "Mind over matter."

He draped them across my breasts, the cool fabric teasing me to prickle and harden. He pushed me back on the pillows, kneading and nuzzling my flesh, telling me I was beautiful, obediently avoiding my taut nipples, but devouring them with his eyes.

I dreaded what he was going to ask of me.

"So?" he said, hesitantly. My heart started to pound. "Want to give it a try? You know I'll be gentle." I could tell he was expecting me to refuse, and I hated to disappoint him again.

I swallowed hard. It was time for me to get tough with my nipples.

"Tie me up," I said. "So I can't get away."

His eyes widened. Grinning, he stretched my arms above my head and bound them to the headrail with the scarves. My breasts heaved, defenseless, with the ragged rhythm of my breathing.

He said, "I'll stop if you can't stand it." He gazed at me so hungrily I knew he wouldn't. Once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

"Use your hands first. Do me slow," I whispered.

Soothingly, taking his time, he kneaded a flush of pale pink warmth into my twin fullnesses. He lowered his head and kissed -- lightly, nudging his face gently into the mounds of my breasts from their base, nosing upwards all around them toward the top, circling each areola then brushing his lips almost imperceptibly against its gossamer softness.

So far so good. I closed my eyes and prayed for courage.

I was throbbing, fiercely erect.

His closed lips, dry and delicate, grazed me. Again. And again. I trembled, striving mightily not to flinch or squirm. I barely breathed.

"How is that?"

"Fine. It's fine."

He laid his closed lips right over one nipple, then pressed just enough that it slid between his lips. Oh God. Warm. Soft. Wet.

Cold: an ice cube from his drink on the bedside table, there and gone. I gasped and stiffened, stifling a scream.

"Shall I stop?"

"No. Open your mouth."

I felt a warm wave of slickness as his tongue washed my nipple. Not sucking yet, just lapping, lips parted, tongue relaxed.

Cold again, knocking me completely off-balance. Damn! I arched my back, twisting. "The other one," I choked, whipping myself onward, blinded by my misery.

He attended both nipples at length. My fingers clenched the headrail, my body was sheened with sweat.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," I groaned, lying with a kind of desperation. It was excruciating. "Suck," I said.

He fastened his mouth firmly to one nipple while he rubbed and tweaked the other. I thought I might go completely mad when he drew them inside his mouth, one after the other. His tongue stroked them to burning tumescence. I gasped again as a wave of dire need cascaded down my ass and up through my crotch. Suddenly he was sucking hard, flattening each nipple rhythmically against his palate.

Between my legs, a deep knot of desire was bulging and tightening. My hips began to rock.

"Don't. Jack. Stop," I whispered.

Fully aroused, he ignored my voice and heeded my body. He sucked rough and ravenous, his greedy jaws expropriating my flesh. I wallowed in an agony of pain and need.

"Jack. Stop. No."

My nipple became the white-hot core of a shock wave that reverberated to the roof of my skull and the soles of my feet, that imploded in my crotch. A scorching release of juices sluiced me. I writhed out of control against my bonds.

His mouth still glued to me, he crawled on top, trying to restrain me with his sheer weight.

It was to no avail. The harder he sucked, the more I thrashed beneath him until he had no recourse but to sink himself full into me. His sweet savage mouth stretched me out and shattered all my anguish into oblivion.

Later, as I lay in his lap again, he asked, "Darling, that didn’t hurt?"

Fleetingly, I remembered Laura. I smiled dreamily. "Oh, no. It felt incredible."

I arched back over his thigh. With newfound wantonness, I lay brazenly open to his view my two protuberant, bright, and jaunty nipples.

"...Jack?"

"Mmmm?"

"Do it again."

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