Content warning: this story includes instances of dubious consent

I first realized my wife enjoyed a bit of nipple pain early in our courtship when my teeth grazed her nipple and she moaned. I’m not slow to jump on anything that turns a woman on, so I made a point of adding a little rough nipple play into most of our sessions. I soon learned that there was mmm-pain and there was ouch-pain, but figuring out which action caused which re-action was trickier.

I bought the first pair of nipple clamps for our second anniversary. People tell you that sex levels off after you get married, and they aren’t wrong. The only time I felt that old spark from her was when I spent some time biting her nipples, but there were positions where biting wasn’t feasible, and I worried I’d lose myself in the moment and bite one right off. The harder, the better from her point of view, but I didn’t want a wife with one nipple.

Nipple clamps made sense—a hands-free way to give her what she needed while I enjoyed the rest of her body. Her eyes got wide when she unwrapped them. I thought I was home free. But as soon as I put one on, she wanted it off again.

“It hurts.”

“I thought you liked when it hurts.”

“Not like that.”

Clamps were ouch-pain, so back to biting and—another trick I learned—creasing. I could cut grooves in her nipples with my fingernails and she’d only moan. But let my fingers shift to something more like a pinch and she’d pull away with a shake of her head. I tried another model of clamp with the same result. They were off as soon as they were on. Frustrated, I pulled her between my knees one day and looked at her sternly.


She only shook her head, as if she couldn’t.

“Explain.” I took a nipple between my teeth and bit down harder than I ever had. I was angry, pure and simple. I held on, shaking my head, dragging her breast from side to side, feeling her slump bonelessly in my arms.

“Sharp,” she whispered. “It has to be sharp.”

I released her nipple to clarify, but she was beyond further conversation. She pushed me onto the couch and straddled me. All I could do was hold on.

Sharp, I pondered the next day while browsing my favorite online adult store. There were a lot of different designs, but they all had one thing in common: they compressed rather than pierced. Now that she had explained it, I felt like I should have been able to figure it out myself. My teeth, my fingernails—they were sharp. She didn’t want me to squeeze her nipples; she wanted me to crease them. She didn’t want me to gnaw; she wanted me to bite. So the question was how to make sharp happen for her without so much effort from me.

I tried a few Google searches but mostly came up with sites about nipple piercings. She might enjoy having hers pierced, but it would be one and done. What she wanted was the act of piercing, not the result. I tried a few more searches and found pictures of breasts bound in ropes or draped in chains or otherwise tortured and adorned and then—unexpectedly—Google served up a single image of an old-fashioned, screw-on earring.

I almost stopped breathing. I knew I’d found it. A simple design really: a fixed plate and a screw that moved towards it. I could only think that they must be uncomfortable to wear on your ears. And that’s when made it all make sense. Women got their ears pierced because once the needle penetrated, the pain was gone. With screw-on earrings, the pain would never stop.

Now that I knew what I was looking for, it was easy to find. I bought a pair of screw-ons from eBay—simple hoops. I had a feeling the rings would come in handy. The only modification I needed to make was to snip off the rounded ball which was meant to spread out the pain. My lady didn’t like her pain spread out. Without that ball, the post looked like a wicked thing to press into your flesh. I experimented by fastening the earring onto the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. It was sharp all right, but not sharp enough to break the skin.

I’ll never forget the day I first put them on her—the day our whole life began to change.

Sitting on the couch, I called her over and removed her shirt and bra. I wouldn’t say she was eager, but she went along with it. Trying not to get my hopes up too high, I attached one of the hoops to her right nipple and started twisting the screw. As the clamp got tighter, her eyes got wider. She didn’t make a sound, but her hands gripped my arms as if she were having trouble holding herself up. I kept tightening, not sure how far I could go, until she did make a sound. A very quiet, very needy sound.

I held up the second ring. Her eyes were so bright, so big. Her hands on my arms trembled. She swayed as I twisted the clamp on the second ring. When I had it about as tight as the first one, I stopped to assess her. Her breathing was fast and shallow, her eyes unfocused. I reached a hand down to her pussy and stroked the silky wetness up to her hard-button clit. She whimpered, quivering in my hands. I stroked lightly, no intention of making her come just then, only teasing her, enjoying the unreal near-silent, near-stillness of her surrender.

I lifted a hand to one of the rings and tugged. That was all it took. She came in helpless, shuddering waves, sagging into my arms. I didn’t move as I watched the orgasm run through her. It needed no help from me.

As soon as it was over, her hands tore at the rings. I helped her take them off, sorry to see the moment end. Although I hadn’t gotten anything out of it myself, her pleasure had been enchanting. But it wasn’t over. Once the rings were off she launched herself at me in a frenzy. And we fucked and fucked and fucked.

“They’re good?” I asked her in bed later that night.

She only blushed and closed her eyes, but as I was falling asleep, I heard her whisper in my ear: “Sharper.”

I spent a little time at the dining room table the next night filing the posts. I kept testing them on my own hand while she watched. Satisfied at last, I held one up to suggest that she try it herself, but she shook her head. She pulled a breast out of her bra and showed me the nipple. There was a dark scabby-looking dent on each side of it. Not bloody, but severely bruised. Until she healed, further stimulation would be ouch-pain, not mmm-pain

I put the rings in my pocket to show her I understood, then I led my willing wife to the bedroom. I could enjoy myself, rings or no rings, and somehow those rings, even though they were in my pants pocket on the bedroom floor, made a difference.

I became a master of the rings. At first it was as simple as putting them on and tightening them a few turns. We could only use them once a week or so, only when she was healed from the last time, but it didn’t matter. I could surprise her in the middle of the most mundane task with a jingle of the rings and her pussy would be wet before I could get my hand to it. I carried them with me always.

I couldn’t help but push it. Every session, a little tighter. The sharpened posts held so securely that I could grab the rings and raise her breasts with them while she rode me, or reach around her in doggy and pull them back towards me. The bucking, keening, trembling, hot, tight, wet madness drove me to greater extremes. Sex was so easy now. No more awkward fumbling to reach her clit, no more holding myself back waiting for her to come. She didn’t need anything except a good hard tug on those rings.

The weights were a stroke of genius. Fucking her from behind one day I tugged on one of the rings lightly, not wanting to set her off quite yet. She quivered and mewled, like she always did. God, I loved that sound, so desperately quiet. I was torn between wanting to do it again and being annoyed at having to take one of my hands off her hips and bend forward to accomplish the task. Watching her breasts swing back and forth from my thrusts, a thought occurred to me. I went over to her jewelry box on the dresser and grabbed the heaviest, most dangly earrings I could find.

She hadn’t moved from the position I’d left her in. She was so beautifully pliant when the rings were on. The realization that I could do anything to her in this condition flashed through my mind. I slid my cock back into her pussy—I wanted to be inside her when it happened—and reached around to her breasts. Finding the hoops with my fingers, I hooked the pendant earrings through them, supporting the weight in my hands. Then—both at once—I dropped them.

My God, the reaction. She reared up, her head snapping back. Her movement set the diamond drops to swinging, and the swinging ratcheted up the pain another notch. Her pussy was doing somersaults around my cock as she clawed at the bedspread, her mouth opening and closing silently. I didn’t have to move a muscle. I just sat back and rode her orgasm out, letting it milk me dry.

And then she was ripping at the rings like she always did. As soon as her first orgasm ended she couldn’t bear them to be on anymore. I let her scramble for them, too drained to help. It had been good for me, too.

That thought I’d had—that I could do anything to her when the rings were on—wouldn’t leave my mind. Naturally I had to prove it.

One day when we were arguing about whose turn it was to do the dishes, I took out the rings. Her eyes went blank and her voice went silent. I didn’t even take off her shirt — just unbuttoned it a little and lifted her breasts so that her nipples rode over the top of her bra and started cranking those suckers down. Then I pushed her towards the sink and she went without a word. With the rings on she was nearly soundless, only those little noises she couldn’t help.

I waited until she was almost done before I added the weights, knowing that once she came I might get fucked but I probably wouldn’t get clean dishes. I gave the screws a good twist first to be sure they were secure, then added the weights and backed away. As she shimmied and shook, I had no doubt she could make herself come like that. I took my cock in my hand and watched as her upper body danced, her breasts bouncing, jewelry jangling. Her breathing got loud enough to hear. Her face reflected in the window was a contorted O of pleasure and pain. If every jerk was agony, she was doing it to herself—couldn’t keep from doing it to herself. My little nipple-pain slut.

I knew when she came because she grabbed for the rings, tearing them off so quickly it must have caused some real ouch-pain to do it. Then she turned and knelt and swallowed me whole.

I had to do the last few dishes myself, but it was worth it.

There are things in your marriage bed—probably every husband knows what I mean—that are taboo, off-limits, a definite no. But that doesn’t mean you don’t fantasize about them. It’s normal, I think, when jerking off in the shower to summon a picture of your wife’s ass turning red under your hand, or to pretend that you’re fucking into her ass rather than your own fist, to imagine the feel of it tight around your cock. I’m not the only husband who has these fantasies, I promise you. But not every husband has my advantage.

I was nervous the day I guided her over my knee. It’s not like I’d never suggested (maybe hinted was a more accurate word) that administering a bare-handed spanking to her bare-bottomed ass would be an erotic experience for me. It’s just that she’d never taken me up on the hint. She’d never even read that 50 Shades book. But wasn’t I turning her dreams into reality every week?

Saturday was our day now. She was so soft on Saturdays, so pliant. I would come around a corner and find her just standing there, breathing a little heavily, her eyes already glazing. The anticipation was dizzying.

So my fantasies too—yes, surely that was fair.

I took my time that Saturday, spinning it out to better enjoy my own anticipation. I knew where I was headed. I cranked the screws one turn at a time, letting her stand naked before me, silent and waiting. Once they were about middling tight, I took my own clothes off. My cock was hard for it. I guided her hand to it and she stroked me while I tightened the screws some more. Slowly. One and then the other. Not letting her settle, not letting her catch her breath. One more turn.

I’d never had them so tight, but I needed her there, at the very edge. Her eyelids were sagging shut and her hand faltered on my cock. Meeting no resistance, I turned her and lowered her to her knees and across my lap. Her breasts fell on one side of my legs. Her ass lay directly beneath my hand on the other.

I slapped that ass.

She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But then, the screws were very tight. She would be beyond conscious thought, certainly beyond conscious action. I reached down and brushed the nipple closest to me and she made a sound then, her head hanging limp between her hands. Reassured, I set to it. My arm rose and fell, the impact stinging both her ass and my hand. Her ass reddened gradually with my swings, the very image from my masturbatory fantasies. At first she had no reaction beyond the usual tremulous acquiescence, but then she made a sound. An ouch-pain sound, not an mmm-pain sound.

No, no, I thought. I’m not nearly done.

I hadn’t hung the weights yet, fearful of her ability to make herself come and spoil my fun. But now I had no choice. I stopped my smacking and stroked her nipples instead, teasing and tweaking them each in turn until I felt a runnel of pussy juice drip down my leg. I added the weights and quickly started spanking her ass again while fresh pain coursed through her. Her breasts jerked with the impact of my hand against her ass, sending the weights swinging. She was wild with it, groaning as if she’d finally given herself permission to, jiggling her torso in convulsive abandon, her ass rising to meet my hand. I swung harder, faster, not knowing how long it would last, determined to get every stroke in before her orgasm hit.

On and on it went, until my arm was tired. My hand stung fiercely, and my cock throbbed with unmet demand against her stomach. I couldn’t believe she’d outlasted me, but I was done. I wanted to be inside her. I stopped swinging and rubbed my hand admiringly against the beautiful red ass I’d made. And then, because she’d been a very, very good girl, I gave a good hard pull on one of the rings, letting her orgasm finally sweep through her. Her head reared back, her mouth open but silent. Her arms pressed into the ground, lifting her torso up, the ring stretching her nipple impossibly long between my hand and her breast. Her pussy ground against my thigh in rhythm with her grunts. I didn’t stop pulling, letting her have every second of the orgasm she deserved.

When it was over, she tore herself off my lap and landed on her ass on the carpet in front of me. As she grabbed for the rings, I looked her over. Her hair was wild, her face red, her nipples almost black. Her eyes were wet. Her mouth trembled.

Oh shit, I thought, now I’m going to get it.

A moment later she was between my knees, my cock deep in her throat, her red ass sticking up behind her. I put my hands in her hair and thought, Dude, you’ve got it made.

The anal? Yeah, that happened too.

Another guy might have gone there first, but spanking was something we hadn’t talked about. Not explicitly at least. Whereas anal? Yeah, we’d talked about that. I’m a human male and I’d asked. And asked and asked. She’d made it very clear the answer was no. As in no, never, not a chance, no.

But after that spanking, when she spent the week sore in the ass not just in the nipples and never spoke a word of complaint, I had to believe I could get away with anything. So I was confident, maybe even careless, when I placed her on the bed in doggy style, rings tightened about halfway and a set of weights off to the side in case I needed them.

We were long past the days of improvising weights out of jewelry. Although we always used the same rings—they were more precious to me than our wedding rings—we had a whole wardrobe of weights. These were some of her favorites, by which I mean that they were especially cruel. Solid steel balls about the size of cherries hanging from thin elastic. Heavy in themselves, they had the extra feature of bounce-back. Drop them and they didn’t just give one yank on the rings. They bounced back and dropped a second time. And a third.

Another nice bit of torture was to pull a ball as far as the elastic would allow and then release it. First came relentless, increasing weight, then a sudden release before the bounce, bounce, bounce, jerk of steel tearing through nipple flesh. And then sometimes I liked to swing them so that they clicked against each other, like those time-wasting contraptions they used to have in offices in the eighties. That was just because I thought it was funny. I can be a bastard like that.

With the weights in reserve, I grabbed our neglected tube of lube off the nightstand. Funny that we used to need it. I could make her wet from across the room now just by letting those rings clink together in my pocket. But for her virgin ass, she would get lube.

I knelt behind her and lubed up, my cock pulsing eagerly in my hand. Her eyes were nicely unfocused already so I doubt she had any idea what I was up to until I pushed the head of my cock right in there.

Oh my God, I thought, when her sphincter closed around my cock head. How have I been missing out on this?

Oh my God, I thought, when her head came around so she could glare at me. She’s going to kill me. She wasn’t in deep enough, not by a long shot.

One of my hands was on my cock, keeping it firmly grounded in heaven. To tighten a screw, it takes two hands. Panicked, I grabbed a ring and squeezed as hard as I could, deforming it into her. Her head dropped, her sphincter tightened, my cock jumped. I let it all settle for a moment. As I listened to her rushed, shallow breathing, I knew it would be OK.

With a happy sigh I fed my cock deeper into her as I squeezed harder on the ring. Her ass ground back against me, taking me in. With my cock sheathed about halfway, I felt snug enough inside her that I could take a moment to tighten the screws.

I ran my thumbs over her nipples to check her arousal level. High, I thought as she made that sound in the back of her throat that meant she was too excited to really breathe. I could feel the pulse of her arousal around my cock in a way I never had in her pussy. It was glorious, that hot tightness choking and gasping around me.

Not wanting to have to stop to do it later, I hung the weights. They dropped, and she bucked. Her ass had me completely now. I was buried in her, prisoner to the sensation as she fucked me. Fucked me. Ramming forward and back, the cherries swinging like wrecking balls beneath her, sucking me in and squeezing me back out. The friction, the pressure. I was going to come—was trying to beat her to it—when she arched her back in an agonized, soundless spasm. Her ass spasmed with her, clenching and releasing my cock as she rocked through her orgasm.

And then it was over and she was removing the rings. She came down onto her forearms and rested her head against the sheet. Her ass released its death grip on my cock. I waited a moment and then, when she didn’t move, I did. With great leisure, and no small amount of pleasure, I finished fucking my wife in the ass. I think she liked it.

That was the last time I can recall that she tried to resist me sexually. Every day was Saturday by then. I could have my balls against her chin on Monday, turn her ass crimson on Tuesday, and be plowing the back nine on Wednesday. As long as when Saturday came I took the rings out of my pocket and cranked them down on her nipples, I could have whatever I wanted the rest of the week.

She got off on it too. She came easy now, even without the rings. Memories, I think. Her eyes were often a little cloudy and a soft smile never left her lips. She looked at me with wide adoring eyes, like I was her hero. One of my friends commented on it once, asking me what I put in her drink. I only smiled and jangled the rings in my pocket, then smiled harder when I saw her flush, even though she was five or six feet away and couldn’t possibly have heard them.

My only regret was that I couldn’t give her more. Here I was living my fantasies 24/7 and she only got fifteen minutes, once a week. We couldn’t use the rings any more often than that. It simply took that long for her to heal to the point where it was fun again. And once that first orgasm was over, the rings had to come off. For whatever reason, there was no second helpings on nipple play. Those fifteen minutes once a week seemed to be enough for her, but I never liked a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

Then one Saturday I was in my usual Saturday spot, sitting on the couch with my naked, be-ringed wife between my knees. The weights I’d selected that day had only been introduced a few weeks ago. They each had a hook on top and an eye on the bottom so they could be chained, adding both pull and swing. So far I hadn’t managed to chain more than two on each side without triggering an orgasm, but I’d optimistically laid out the whole set. Her eyes—glazed as they were–kept wandering to them. She licked her lips.

I had her nicely cranked down, so I leaned back, planning to have her mount me for some reverse cowgirl action. She rode my cock like it was a bronco when she was making those weights dance. But she mistook my posture, and before I could guide her onto my cock, she threw herself across my lap for a spanking.

“Whoa, now,” I said, standing her back up. She didn’t usually show any initiative once the rings were on, but I’d been noticing lately that she was almost hyper-eager to be spanked. I would write it off as another form of pain she enjoyed, except I was pretty sure she didn’t. If I pulled her over my lap on a day other than Saturday, she didn’t resist, but she sure as hell didn’t enjoy. Was it the wrong kind of pain? Did she need a different implement? Whips, straps? I liked the old fashioned feel of my hand against her flesh, but my wife’s needs have always been foremost in my mind. I think you can see that.

“You like being spanked?” I asked her. She didn’t answer me, so I took one of the rings and twisted it halfway around until her knees bent and she shook her head no.

“But you want to be spanked?” Little twist.

She nodded.


She licked her lips. She looked at the weights laid out next to me. She looked at the ground. I sighed. I knew it was hard for her to talk when she was as aroused as this. The excitement left no room for air in her chest. But if I was going to understand it, she had to explain it.

I cranked the ring all the way around and gave it a yank towards me for good measure. She crumpled. As she sank, the distance between her breast and my hand increased until she was left half upright, supporting herself with her hands on my knees, her breath coming in gasps. I put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up so I could see into her eyes.


“It stops me from . . . so it lasts.”

Ah, now that made sense. She did usually outlast me on spanking days, no matter how wild her flailing got. Her boobs could fly around like they were having a boxing match with each other, weights swinging hard enough to put out an eye, and all the while those vocal explosions that never happened otherwise. She was using the spanking the same way a male virgin recites baseball stats in his head: trying to delay the inevitable.

I could remember those days, and they sucked. Who wants to be thinking about baseball while you’re living the dream? I didn’t want to distract her from the sensation; I wanted her to enjoy it. I mean, yeah I might paddle her ass because I got a crazy kick from it (whatever, don’t judge) but I couldn’t see diluting her pleasure for the sole purpose of prolonging it.

I let go of the ring and she dropped to her knees.

I thought it through. I could try to dial it back in order to spin it out, but she wouldn’t like that. If I didn’t tighten a screw or add some weight every so often, she flattened out. No, weakening her pleasure wasn’t the answer either. What she wanted was to experience that full wash of sensation she got right before she came but without actually coming. I figured I could make that happen.

I got her settled on my cock where I’d meant her to be in the first place, facing away from me in reverse cowgirl, and hung a weight from each ring, then leaned back and let her do the work. I kept an eye on her twitching, waiting to hear the whimpering sounds from the back of her throat and see her hands scrabble blindly at her thighs. When she was right there, I grabbed her breasts. Not roughly. Quite the opposite. I held them as softly as I would hold my own baby’s head, my hands cupping, fingers nowhere near her nipples, palms taking the burden of the weights, framing her into stillness.

Her whimpering increased in pitch as her whole body tensed, straining to escape me so she could find release, but I didn’t let go. I waited until the tension left her and she started to breathe again. She hadn’t come—of that I was sure—but now for the crucial test. I removed my hands from her breasts, letting the weights swing free. She let out a keening sound of satisfied agony. Pleased, I added a weight to each nipple, then slapped her flank to tell her giddy-up.

Two weights on each side, and she was going strong. Her vocalizations were louder and her movement freer. She was making the most of this second chance, ramping up nicely to a new plateau. I waited as long as I dared before stilling her again. She cried in ecstasy laced with painful frustration.

When she relaxed this time I kissed her neck. She lay her head back against mine, a rare moment of tenderness on a Saturday. I nuzzled against her. Then I dropped my hands. Two weights hit each nipple and she was off again. It was a tricky business getting the next set of weights hung with everything jerking and swinging the way it was and my cock begging for its own release but the effect was worth the effort. This was new territory, and she couldn’t sit still for it. No man has ever been ridden harder. I came in buckets, her pussy contracting around me as I pinched the rings between my fingers and took her with me.

When it was over, and the rings were off, she sat in my lap and cried. I didn’t worry about it. I knew they were happy tears.

In time she learned to control her orgasms herself. I’m a bit lazy (isn’t that how this whole story started?) and I didn’t need to be monitoring her arousal level every minute when I had my own orgasms to think about. I taught her to bring her hands up to ease the weights and dampen the swing. I taught her to be still, no matter how much she needed to move. When I could see that she had it, that she could ride the wave without going over, I gave her one little rule: only I got to make her come. She could control the race, but I decided when it was over.

She broke that rule only once. Ironically, I was spanking her at the time. I don’t think she meant to do it. She probably thought it was safe under the circumstances to keep swinging those weights the way she was, but she was wrong. As soon as she was done coming, I could see she was regretful. I just put her back over my knee and got back to what I was doing. I wasn’t going to spoil my own night. But I knew there had to be a consequence, so the next Saturday the rings stayed in my pocket. We both had a bad week that next week. I’d forgotten what she could be like.

She didn’t make that mistake again. She can spend the whole evening in rings now, riding the edge and backing down again. I don’t even have to be involved. After I’ve come once or twice myself, I can relax and watch TV or surf the internet, paying her no mind until she’s suddenly there looking at me with hopeful eyes—wanting another turn of the screw or some extra weight, not that she’d ask out loud.

One night I had her folding laundry with the chandelier weights on—they’re light but easily set in motion, perfect for doing chores—while I watched the game, and I guess I fell asleep. I woke up with a stiff neck and there she was standing beside me, not a muscle moving except her throat compulsively swallowing and her chest heaving. The rhinestone strands tinkled against each other with her every breath. She spoke. Only one word.


I swept a finger across the weights to set them rustling like wind chimes in the breeze, and that was all it took. As she shook through her orgasm, I wondered how long she’d held herself like that, on the very edge of sanity.

It’s a beautiful thing to watch your wife on the verge of coming for hours at a time. That’s the mental picture of her I carry with me: her body taut, her mind slack. A woman can’t be any more beautiful than she is then, in that moment before, when there’s nothing in her but need. And you’re the one who did it to her. And you’re the cure.