Nipple Clamp Story

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Nipple Clamp Story


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I have small boobs. So no, figuring out ways to go braless with big boobs isn't exactly a problem I have. In fact, I could probably easily live bra-lessly for a week — small perks of having small boobs. Bless the sweaters and all things slightly loose-fitting. The universe wouldn't have a clue what in the world of boobage is happening in that area of my body — if anything at all.
Yet that's just the thing. When it comes to wearing anything a little more revealing, it's hard to cross the seemingly infinite pre-pubescent boundary of "small and cute" into "sexy and mature." I worry more about shape than support when dealing with bras. Without the slight boost of a bra — padded or unpadded — I sometimes can't help but feel like a 12-year-old-girl trying on her mother's clothes and playing adult. And don't get me wrong, I've totally gotten to embrace my tiny ta-tas. (How many different words for "boobs" can I come up with in this article?)
But how about a date? Small-breasted chicks worry just as much about the nip-slips, hard-nips, lopsidedness, and weird cleavage action that can go down. No matter your size, going braless adds that much more to the vulnerability factor on a first date . So naturally, I figured I'd give it a try.
I could have cheated and opted for my usual go-to braless outfit of a comfy sweater and jeans/leggings. But where would the fun in that be? Also, not trying to turn down the heat on a potential hot date before it's even started.
When sifting through my closet, my eyes immediately landed on this black deep V-neck dress. It would have been the perfect candidate for one of Cosmopolitan 's bras for hard-to-wear-dresses , but I wasn't going to be needing that tonight.
The first thing I noticed when I put this on (for the first time, actually), was how uneven my cleavage looked. I mean it wasn't anything major, but there was definitely some shifty lopsidedness happening. I never really thought about my boobs being different sizes or weirdly spaced apart since they're so small — until I threw on the braless V neck. From one angle, I looked totally flat and from another, you could see some sort of indication of a boob.
But still. I was kinda feelin' it. My small boobs made a subtle appearance that I totally dug as a nice balance of classy and sexy.
That being said, I was in the comfort of my bedroom with self-validating vibes bouncing off all four walls — I wasn't quite sure those confident vibes would have followed me out the door. This was not an outfit I would have been comfortable wearing for this date. I think the dress may have even been a little big, because just with a little moving around, you could easily see everything goin' on in that plunging neckline — not something I'm trying to showcase on a first rendezvous.
Black halter leotard and black harem pants — it's probably no surprise to you that this entire outfit is American Apparel. Another thing I realized during my braless outfit search was that I tended to gravitate towards the color black. I mean, let's be real, the majority of my wardrobe is black anyway, but I instinctively went for the color especially because it did the best job of making my nipples less noticeable.
I noticed the same issue of unevenness with this leotard, but it felt more secure for sure. And especially since my boobs aren't really naturally perky, this top did a nice job of boosting them up a bit.
So it looks like I'm not wearing a shirt from the back. Definitely a solid Tinder icebreaker: txt me when ur here, I'm the shirtless girl at the bar...can't wait 2 meet u xoxo. Insert smirking emoji.
Time to head out! Eek! Looking at these pics, I know I seem totally unenthused, but I was A) nervous as heck, B) still uncertain about my boobs cooperating with me, and C) just tryna' look sexy and not cute for once.
I left a little earlier than I normally would — (I usually like avoiding the awkwardness of picking a seat and then waiting nervously) — but I figured I'd bite the bullet and make sure I got there first so I could gather my thoughts. Or something.
I wasn't about to start taking selfies or photos of my date because that would just be creepy. So here's a photo of my drink.
The date itself was pretty damn swell . So what kind of difference did not wearing a bra make? Well, for starters, I was definitely way more self-conscious during the first hour or so. I couldn't help but keep imagining that part of my boob was popping out while I was talking. Or that everything just looked weird down there. I even had some moments of doubt that the top really emphasized my lack of boobage and I looked silly trying to pull off this amateur J. Lo-meets-Kim Kardashian plunging neckline.
I fidgeted more than I usually would. I kept looking down and adjusting my top when it didn't really need fixing. I looked around to see what other women were wearing. I wondered if my date judged me for not wearing a bra, and if it was obvious. Like I probably came across as a paranoid nervous wreck.
But my date didn't seem to notice. Or really care, for that matter. And then I realized all my anxieties were silly. Why should anyone care as long as I was feeling it? And with the flow of conversation and drinks, I stopped worrying about it so much and actually felt so comfortable by the end of the night. Without any tightening or loosening of bra straps needed, no adjusting, and no uncomfortable pinching and squeezing, my little boobies felt as free as a wild night of Netflix and chill.
It was comfortable both physically and with how I felt about rocking something meant to draw more attention to the chest. I flaunted what I had, and I felt great.
My takeaway? It's totally about the mindset. Feeling comfortable in your skin is the best kind of fashion accessory that gives you more support than any bra ever will. Small boobs can be sexy, and you need no bra to prove it. And if you do, that's OK too.

Original Fiction
by Scott ©2001     
RamAirIIII@aol.com

Celia was a lab
rat. At least that’s what she and the other scientists and technicians
called themselves; the Biotronics Corporation lab rats. The name probably
came from the anonymity and de-humanization that were byproducts of their
uniforms and the enormous size of the Biotronics facility.

Hundreds and
hundreds of Biotronics staff milled around like ants; or perhaps more like
rats in a maze. Each looked much like the others, dressed in his or her
unisex white lab coat and scrubs. It was almost difficult to tell the women
from the men. The sterile environment was made even more Orwellian by the
countless stainless steel tables brimming with the equipment and wires and
tubes of science.

Ironically, in
this most antiseptic and featureless environment, pieces and parts of humans
themselves were being created. Different departments developed and refined
artificial bits of bone, cartilage, tendon, and ligament. A battalion of
scientists was trying to reproduce nearly all the internal organs, with
varying degrees of success.

Celia’s
department was that of the largest human organ, the epidermis. Her team’s
goal was a strong, natural appearing, synthetic substitute for skin. The
application was especially targeted towards burn and large-abrasion victims,
or those with degenerative skin diseases.

Celia’s private
life was, to put it gently, unorthodox. She was the only thirty-six year old
that she knew who wasn’t a mommy; Nor was she anyone’s wife, lover, or even
girlfriend. It was not that she was unattractive; her height was
proportionate to her weight, her skin was clear, and her face could be
considered pleasing. It wasn’t that she was particularly anti-social,
psychotic or a deliberate loner. The reason for her extended “singleness”
was her unique (for a woman) sexuality. Celia was an utter pervert; so much
so that she believed in her heart that there was no real chance of finding a
true soul mate. 

The clamps
were ingenious in that they tormented the wearer, yet allowed
circulation into the nipples. This feature permitted them to be locked
onto the wearer/victim indefinitely. Celia had previously enjoyed
playing a little game of locking the clamps in place on her tortured
nipples, and then mailing the keys to herself. She would be trapped in
the hellish little devices until the mail delivered the keys back to
her, a day or two later. This little game continued until once when they
didn’t turn up when they were supposed to. The clamps hurt terribly, and
there was no escaping them. They worked in conjunction with piercings in
Celia’s nipples, holding the nipple stretched and clamped inside a
conical shield. She could not touch any part of her nipples once the
devices were in place. Removing them would have involved painful,
costly, disfiguring surgery. Six agonizing, awful weeks went by before
the keys showed up. The envelope was marked “insufficient postage.”
Celia’s
evenings were always spent quickly changing into her fetish clothing,
locking her bondage keys into their timed-release box, scarfing a little
dinner, doing her household chores, and then going straight to the
computer. There, she would cruise the Web looking for stories, pictures,
new devices and fetish items, and stopping off briefly at the occasional
chat room. As she browsed the world’s perversions, she would masturbate,
bringing herself off dozens of times a night. She met lots of people
online, but refused to let anyone get really close to her. She had
things just the way she wanted them.

Morning would
bring release from her self-imposed punishments; the key box would buzz and
unlock, allowing her to change back into her daytime persona. Celia had
another little game she played, one that helped carry her through the boring
hours of work and public responsibilities like grocery shopping, auto
repairs and so on. Under her boring external clothes, she would always wear
some sort of fetish apparel, often in conjunction with some discipline
device(s). The rule was, it had to lock onto her. The keys would stay at
home, and she would be helpless to stop the torment going on just under her
lab coat or street clothes.

Corsets had long
been a favorite item, and they were a daily ritual for Celia. Through years
of tight lacing, usually both day and night, she had achieved a remarkable
eighteen-inch waist. It wasn’t the incredible 15 inches that


“Spook” displayed on her web page, but
Celia was still quite proud of it. On a typical day, Celia would lace into a
leather long-line corset, pulling it tight to the point of dizziness. Her
more extreme corsets started with a low collar (locking) and carried down
over the shoulders and all the way to two inches past her hip bones. There
were two, small round openings in the front of the heavily boned leather
sheath that Celia would have to pull and massage her D-cup breasts through.
The effect was a pair of perfectly round, bright red orbs, protesting at the
cruel root-cinching. Getting dressed for work always involved bringing
herself to at least one climax!

Instead of
conventional panties, Celia would lock her privates away behind a steel
chastity belt; often with the addition of a painfully large intruder that
would stretch her abused anus wide around its girth through the day. The
belt’s wide, impenetrable front panel effectively stopped her practice of
sneaking away to the ladies room to masturbate, a habit she was trying to
break, due to suffering job performance. Another daily torment was her
practice of wearing a small chain that ran from one nipple ring to the
other, routed up behind her neck. This chain was deliberately too short for
comfort, and the result was the weight of her round breasts was supported by
her nipple rings. She called it her “chain bra.” She would complete her
undergarments by adding a pair of shiny, white, “extra control” stockings
which were held up by her corset’s eight garters. She loved the way they
felt, squeezing her from thighs to toes like her latex ones did. The medical
scrubs and lab coat covered everything. She wore (ugh) white, low-heeled
medical shoes, which were comfortable and practical, but she hated them. She
counted the moments until she could be back “en pointe” in her ballet-toed
stiletto punishment pumps. Flats were for men!


While she was at
work, she had to put her sex on a back burner, where it would quietly sizzle
through the day. It had taken years of practice to learn to focus
exclusively on her work, ignoring all the stimulus that her body was
frantically sending. The certainty of the unyielding chastity belt helped;
since she had begun wearing it every day, her work productivity had
increased threefold.

I am divorced, so with that comes some sort of weird socialized thing to A, hate your ex, and B, believe that anytime you see your ex, you’re supposed to be doing better than your ex. It’s supposed to be exactly like First Wives’ Club, where Goldie Hawn loses 30 pounds and takes all of his money and rises to stardom while the husband eats cold pasta because his too young for him wife can’t cook and then he gets an ulcer and has that gross thing where the stomach fat hangs over his belt like like a sad Panda. This is all ultimately to teach the ex a lesson, like, “Well geewhizz you are the best thing since sliced bread. It couldn’t possibly be that the combination of our two personal dysfunctions could not healthfully coexist. YOU ARE AMAZING AND I WAS SCUM TO LET YOU GO! YOU ARE PERFECT I SUCK, PLEASE DON’T EVER CONSIDER ANY PERSONAL GROWTH FROM OUR RELATIONSHIP, IT WAS ALL MEEEEE!” Besides being totally untrue (unlike everything else in movies, because it’s 2013 and Marty McFly promised me a hoverboard), that’s what the movies have told us we are supposed to achieve. We are to run into our ex and hair flip and say, “YEAH I’M A DOCTOR NOW AND MEGAN FOX PROPOSITIONED ME THIS ONE TIME, BUT I TURNED HER DOWN BECAUSE I HAVE STANDARDS.” (You don’t). So anyway, we all grow up with our failed relationships, thinking we will run into our ex and hoping it is when our ex is fat and sad and our asses look good enough to wear those yoga pants with words across the butt and like — ACTUALLY look good in them. And the sickest part about this social idea is that we are supposed to still think this no matter how happy we are in our current relationship (and let me tell you, I found gold in them thar hills in this department). But it never actually happens like that. It happens when you are having a period break out and you’re at the grocery store to get three things you forgot from your real grocery store trip (which was totally normal and sane), and you have this basket with eggs, white wine, and box of tampons and you skipped a shower because “oh who cares that it’s been three days and my hair sticks up like Cameron Diaz in ‘There’s Something About Mary’? It’s just the grocery store.” And your ex is there with a cart full of craft beer and kale and no he did not see you just stand and debate whether buying an entire tube of salami was a good idea (because you’d probably eat it in 15 minutes) for what seemed longer than reading a Harry Potter book. OR DID HE? This, however, is merely an example. There are worse ways to run into your ex. How, might you ask? WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE WORSE!? I know. I know, and it’s true. You can go out to celebrate a birthday party with your friend at an all 90s themed night at a local bar. ANOTHER friend can get you to dress up as Ginger Spice because NINETIES DANCE PARTY DUH and you make the Spice Girl entourage complete. You will literally walk into a crowded bar with a miracle push up bra and a sparkly mini dress that you stuffed yourself into like a sausage in a defective casing, complete with Snooki hair bump because Ginger Spice was apparently a seer and wore that hair HIGH. You. Look. Like. An. Asshole. You look kind of like what a hooker looks like if a 17 year old screenplay writer had written the part of “hooker” into a script after watching 400 hours of 80s movies (I know this is too many decades to keep track of). Do you run into your ex at the 90s themed bar dance party after four Moscow Mules that you downed in quick succession so you could try to dance (you can’t) because your friends WON’T STOP ASKING? NO. NO, you do not. The birthday boy is bored with listening to Blackstreet because we all got pretty bored with listening to Blackstreet by 1999, and wants to go do what every red blooded American grown up wants to do. Go look at boobs. You’re an accommodating friend. You oblige. Yes! Let’s go look at boobs. The boobs purveyed to you, however, are not of a proper caliber (just because you personally live in a hovel doesn’t mean you don’t want to see the palace at Versailles when you visit Paris, if you know what I mean), so you get bored, go outside, bum a cigarette from someone because by now you’ve had six drinks to forget the horror of how you look. And what do you say upon entering the strip club, to seal your fate? “Oh man. I hope I don’t run into my ex. He luuuurbs the boobies, and he lives around here.” And THAT, my dears, is when it happens. Your ex isn’t even supposed to know you smoke when you’re drunk and you bum cigarettes from well meaning gentlemen who are about to witness a terribly painful interaction and have their OWN story. He walks onto the back patio, lights up his OWN cigarette, makes eye contact, and says: “Well, this is awkward.” This is not just an ex ex. This is the ex I coparent with and have three children with. So someday, when my children are grown, the only bonus to this story is that I get to tell them this with while they yell at me how gross and awkward of a human being I am and I am the new family embarrassment and they are off the hook for the next 5 years. The conversation in our heads silently was probably this: “DO THE CHILDREN KNOW YOU SMOKE? HOW OFTEN DO YOU GO OUT DRINKING LIKE SOME KIND OF HEATHEN? SHOULD I BE WORRIED? ARE YOU AN ALCOHOLIC? ARE YOU A SEX ADDICT? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? ARE WE ABOUT TO HAVE A HUMAN INTERACTION? I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN HANDLE THAT!” But we didn’t say any of that. He was gracious as I stumbled all over the patio like a comic book character with the hiccups drawn around her, we had a laugh, I threw in a jab about knowing our run in HAD to be at a strip club (and I said it about 6 times, one for each drink), and we parted our merry ways, never to speak about it again. Worth noting is that I tried miserably to do the Goldie Hawn thing (“I write a BLOG! I SHOUULS
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