"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."