Mmm-Pain

And then it was over and she was removing the clamps. She came down onto her forearms, her head resting against the bedspread. 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 now. 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 always 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 got twenty 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. Sure, I could brush them and make her jerk but I couldn't put her back in that head space. It seemed to be enough for her, those twenty minutes once a week, 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. Each weight 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 get more than two on each side without setting her off 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 hot 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, setting up 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'd write that off as another form of pain she enjoyed except I was pretty sure she didn't. That was more clear when 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? It didn't really appeal to me-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.

"Why?"

She licked her lips. She looked at the weights. 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, she had to tell me.

I cranked the ring all the way around and gave it a yank towards me for good measure. She crumpled, and as she sank the distance between her breast and my hand increased. I didn't move my hand. 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.

"Why?"

"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 used the spankings like a male virgin reciting 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-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 it. If I didn't tighten a screw or add some weight every so often she flattened out. Even now she was eyeing those weights from beneath her hair. No, weakening her pleasure wasn't the answer either. What she wanted was to experience every ounce of the sensation right up to the moment she came 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 and hung the first weight from each ring, then leaned back and let her do the work. I kept an eye on her jerking and twitching, waiting to hear whimpering sounds form in the back of her throat and see her hands scrabbr 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'd hold my baby's head, my hands cupping, fingers nowhere near the nipples, palms taking the burden of the weights, my arms holding her body tight and still.

The whimpering increased in pitch as her whole body tensed, straining to escape me so she could find her release, but I didn't let go. I waited until the tension left her and she started to breath again. She hadn't come, of that I was sure, but now for the crucial test. I took 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. I'd really hit it this time. I could see her clit twitching, as though trying to find something to rub against. 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 reward 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 that any. I knew they were happy tears.

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

She broke the 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 read the paper or check my email, paying her no mind at all 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 about two a.m. with a stiff neck and there she was standing beside me, not a muscle moving except her throat compulsively swallowing and her chest heaving making those rhinestone strands tinkle against each other with every breath. She spoke. Only one word.

"Please."

I swept a finger across the weights to set them rustling like wind chimes in the breeze and that's all it took. Watching her shake 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. I'd guess 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.

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