When Mrs. Cleanknockers ordered me onto the padded table, crouching as a bovine, udders swinging freely, teats erect; my anxious lowing was not feigned. The vise slowly closed, one twist of her thumb and forefinger inexorably squeezing my breasts like fresh dough. Her running commentary, scolding and alluring, alternated between scathing putdowns and complementary observations. When she attached the serrated clamps to my engorged nipples, I screamed. It’s that lightning flash of pain — the searing nervous heat that parboils away the scar tissue of life. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to be whipped. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted.
Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.