A Night At The Nutcracker Suite

Disclaimer - This is definitely a love it or not so much kind of story - as are most of mine. If you're not into hard CBT fantasies, really, you might want to find something a little more typically BDSMy. No sense wasting your time. If, on the other hand, you like hard CBT stories, you might have fun. Either way, knock yourself out and let me know what you think. I appreciate the time you spent reading. Best! ~Matt~ Copyright 2017 Matt Nicholson. All rights reserved.

*

There is a fine line between being extremely kinky and playing with taboo. My girlfriend and I used to skirt that line, or at least we had fun pretending to. But when she died in the wreck, the games we'd played died with her. I was through leaving bruises and bite marks, and being left with them. The almost-trips to the doc-in-the-box were over, and any reality that had existed was gone. Since then, my sex life had been fantasy, and the line-skirting became nothing more than word games with anonymous people somewhere else in the world.

She'd been gone almost two years, and I was good with the status quo. I wasn't looking for a hook-up. I didn't plan on changing enough to satisfy a new relationship. With a nearly perfect partner behind me, dating was more trouble than it was worth. Besides, I'd only be comparing those women to the one I lost. Maybe they'd have a quality or two I liked -- they might even be better at some things -- but no one could replace her. So, I'd gotten very good at using my hand a couple of steel-toothed automotive clamps that bit my balls long and hard enough for the urge to go away. It saved time, money and headaches.

That said, shilling stories for years on Fetlife -- making 'friends' and 'loving' pictures of tits, tit torture and a bit of CBT in the name of book sales -- had resulted in a few real acquaintances. Mistress Shelby was one of them.

I'd met her -- if

met

was really the word -- right after my girlfriend died. I'd 'loved' several dozen of her pictures, paying special attention to her gorgeous tits and the majority of her torture shots. The fact that those sadistic shots focused mostly on other gals' boobs or guys' junk and coincided well with my own urges was a happy coincidence.

Just as I would have done if she'd given my pictures or stories that level of attention, she'd messaged me to thank me for all the 'love'. We struck up one of those rare chats that eventually left us both feeling comfortable that the other wasn't just trolling for wank fodder. That's when we started opening up.

Still, at least at first, we stuck to persona. As 'Brett Davidson' I'd spent years torturing tits for the

Forbidden Pleasures

BDSM webzine, and touted myself as something of as an expert. Since quitting that gig, I'd written and edited hundreds of stories for the

Forbidden Pleasures

book line. I could write tit torture stories my sleep. It had been a way of letting one of my fantasies loose. A lot of my stories had liberal doses of biting, and I was quite skilled on writing my way around the taboo associated with taking that fetish to extremes. In fact -- contrary to what some of the more by-the-book BDSM "experts" might claim -- my faux cannibal stories were easily my best sellers.

But, despite my love of tit torture, when

FP

asked me to write the first story in their new femdom line, I'd jumped in feet first. It wasn't long before I was cranking out cock and ball torture stories with just as much enthusiasm. It was an outlet for my other favorite fantasy, the one with me on the receiving side.

Since

FP

shut down the webzine, I'd drawn most of my inspiration for both topics more from my fantasies than from real life. I could really cut loose on my girlfriend, and I'd always kept my enjoyment of harder ball torture in the closet. So,

researching

stories got me off and gave me a better idea about how some of the things that happened to the hapless victims in my stories might feel. Still, I couldn't risk a trip to the doc-in-the-box any more now than before, so I self-tormented conservatively and dreamed big -- which is where my chats with Shelby came in.

Her profile said she was a decade younger than me. More than young enough to have plenty of energy, and dedicated to sexually punishing, dominating and humiliating anyone that walked into her lair. Regardless of whether or not her playthings were male or female, her writings and pictures certainly made her look good at it.

Over time, I learned that 'Mistress Shelby' was almost as much a role for her as 'Brett Davidson' was for me. All the pictures of her knees crushing crotches, high heels smashing testicles, needles pin-cushioning genitals and the other sadistic fun were real. But, away from the camera, the reality of her life was almost as different from what she portrayed as mine was.

So we talked, and, since neither one of us was into cybersex, we talked some more...

~~~

"Isn't that what it's about for you?"

I looked at her words on my monitor and raised an eyebrow. "No, not really. I just want to play hard. I like the way they feel when I bite them, or the way they bounce when I smack 'em with a belt. Domination doesn't have much to do with it."

"Bullshit. You're telling me you'd get off just as much if she just laid there taking it straight-faced than if she whined and struggled?"

I started to respond. For me, it's always been about playing rough. Pain, bruises and cuts just come with that territory. My fingers hovered over the keys while I thought about what to type. At the same time, my mind flashed a quick comparison. In my head, some anonymous, pretty, twenty or thirty-something lay naked and spread-eagle across a bed. Her full tits were already red and welted from my belt. Her battered nipples were rock stiff and begging for me to bite them hard.

At first, she's just lying there, bound and waiting for the next lash. She seems just fine with life while I beat her boobs raw. Then the scene shifts and she's crying out into her gag, writhing, pleading with her eyes for me to stop, though her abused tits bounced even harder for her struggles.

Her fantasy's gone way too far. She wants to quit, renege, but she's mine to do whatever I wanted to do with -- no matter what

she

wants. My cock stirs, but only after my imaginary belt cracks across the flailing girl's tits and leaves another wicked welt.

Shelby was right. I

did

like the domination. I paused and re-read what she'd asked, then tapped out my reply. "I'd never really thought much about it," I said, not quite ready to concede.

"You just played it out in your head. I'm right, aren't I."

I sighed in surrender. "Okay. Yes. It's better when they struggle."

"Now we're getting somewhere. So, I torture them until it'd take a couple of weeks for them to walking right, and they let me -- willingly. You write stories about it. Same thing, only not only do you miss out on the real fun, you miss the biggest rush of all."

If I hadn't been talking with her long enough to know better, I'd have sworn she was gloating. "What's that," I replied, curious to hear what she thought the biggest rush was, despite my conceding her point.

"The biggest rush is when they beg me to let them come back again, even after I've hurt them so bad. Tell me that isn't great."

I thought back to my imaginary thrashing victim and what I'd do to her

after

I was done beating her tits. It

would

be great. But, for me, it

was

a dream. Still, she wanted an answer. "Yes, it would be great."

"Was that so hard?"

"Yes."

She LOLed, and then another line popped up. "So, I know what you'd do to some slut's tits if you could, the only question is whether you'd cover them with honey first."

"Okay, not sure I follow..."

"You almost never talk about the other side. What's the craziest thing you'd want a woman do to you, if you could?"

I was happy for the change in topic from my inner motivation back to straight fantasies that made me horny. I'd never really seen myself as domineering or sadistic, just kinky. The whole concept left me a little confused.

"You're kidding, right?" I typed. "You've seen what I've 'loved'... What was that, 50 eight gauge needles through that one guy's balls?"

"That's not crazy, that's just intense. I mean crazy. Impossible. The last thing on your bucket list if you knew you were gonna die five minutes after."

A niggling feeling was starting to tickle my brain, as if she was setting me up. Still, with my little head back in control, I played along. "Wow... That's tough."

"First thing that comes to mind. Describe it."

"Okay... I'd want her to do the same thing to my balls I'd want to do to tits.

"You want to do all sorts of shit to tits, silly. You're a writer; describe it like you're going to put it in a book."

"Okay...well..." I thought about it for a second, picturing it in my mind. Then I started typing the same way I type my stories.

"We're out in the middle of nowhere -- a cabin in the woods kind of thing. She's tied my wrists up to ceiling hooks and spread my ankles with a bar so I can't get away. Once I'm helpless, she sucks my cock until I'm granite hard. Then she sets up a portable burner between my legs. I can't help but watch any more than I can help but enjoy her fingers grabbing my balls right before she plops them in a pan of warming water.

The only reason my cock isn't in the warming water with them is that it's pointing straight up at the ceiling, and she's making sure to keep it that way. It's not long before the water's scalding and I'm squirming in pain. Soon, even she can't keep me hard. I try to stand up on my toes, but she kicks my foot to the side so I can't. The only way I can keep my cock out of the water is by lowering my balls deeper into it and letting my failing dick drape outside the pan.

"When breathing techniques stop working and I'm close to bumping the burner over with my crotch, she takes them out. They're still stinging and dripping with warm water as she starts icing them down. It slowly draws tighter until -- when my sack's freezing, hard, wrinkly and numbing -- she starts sucking on them, nipping my tender scrotum as she makes me hard again. She works on one side, biting harder and harder, moving from spot to spot. Just when the pain becomes too much, she stops and waits just long enough to let me cope. When my dick gets hard again, she starts on the other side.

"Bringing me up and down like that, she takes her time slowly mauling my sack. It isn't until my scrotum's almost in ruins that she stops and watches my nuts roll while she gives me a hand job. As badly as I hurt, it takes a while, but I finally start to come. That's when she dives in and really starts biting for some ball-rupturing man fries."

She prefaced her reply with another 'LOL'. "That's why I love to read your stuff. You should hang on to that one. You could call it "A Night at the Nutcracker Suite." After another LOL, she typed, "Too bad I'm not there with a burner."

She'd never really made it personal before. Neither of us had. Even though I felt comfortable with Shelby, my guard automatically went up, I steered the conversation back toward safer ground. "I thought you didn't do that stuff with subs."

"I don't. I never use my mouth. But my fantasies aren't about subs, any more than yours are about willing women."

"Hey, just because I admitted to like them squirming, doesn't mean they're not willing."

"Now you're playing word games again. Go the distance and somewhere along the way they'll all want you to stop. If you don't stop, it's not 'willing.'" There was a few seconds pause before she typed again. "And you did it again."

"Did what again?"

"You changed the subject."

"Sorry. Habit. Fetlife, you know. Anyway, it's a fantasy. I'd never be able to take that."

Still, she persisted. "But you'd love to try, wouldn't you? Helpless while some woman plays out your ultimate dream while all you have to do is hang there and enjoy it."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Still cautious, I waffled some more. "You know I'm not submissive."

As quick as her reply popped up, it was obvious she'd expected something like that. "You wouldn't have to be. It doesn't matter whether you're submissive or not if you're tied up."

Try as I might, I couldn't stop from putting myself in the place of some of the men in her pictures. I was about to grab my throbbing cock when her next message popped onto the screen.

"So, want to trade?"

Maybe, I should have seen it coming, but I stopped in mid-grab. I hesitated again. This is when I usually bolted. But I thought of her full breasts and her incredible, dark nipples surrounded by hard bumps and wrinkles in every picture she posted. I thought of her red lips on me, her white teeth playing at my balls, of how she'd ply her trade as a Mistress and find that perfect balance between my fantasy and reality. My fingers moved. I couldn't help but ask...

"Trade?"

"Sure. You're into musicals, and I've never been. Rent a nice hotel room in Dallas. I'll meet you there. You'll be my sugar-daddy for an evening. Front for a five-star dinner and a show. Afterward I'll be your Mistress and teach you a lesson. I bet we can come close enough to realizing our crazy fantasy."

My brain was screaming a line from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Run away, run away!

But she'd said, '

our

crazy fantasy.' She wanted what I wanted. How could it not be a win?

My fingers moved over the keys. "Which show do you want to see?"

"They're showing

Wicked

next week. Can you get tickets?"

Run away, run away!

"I'm pretty sure."

"Tell me when and where. You're in charge everywhere but in the hotel room. Then I'll take the reins."

I stared at the monitor, wondering what the hell I was thinking as I typed. "You've got a deal."

~~~

I'd stood in the crowd under the awning outside Fair Park's Music Hall with my umbrella ready, watching cabs come and go for about fifteen minutes. We still had twenty minutes until our dinner reservation when a Yellow cab pulled up in the center lane, just past the valet stand. The back passenger door opened and a pair of tightly-woven black fishnets hugging two long legs swung around and out the open door. As a pair of shiny, black platform heals hit the wet pavement, I had a hunch it was her. I watched the black leather-clad curves unfold gracefully from the cab while I moved her way. By the time she stood, I was beside her, holding the umbrella over her.

She smiled and took my arm as if we'd met before. "Brett, I presume?" There were just enough wrinkles at the corners of her eyes to give me credibility as having good taste in younger women, rather than being a cradle-robber. The extra twenty-something pounds she carried had settled perfectly into her breasts and hips. It made her look slightly Reubenesque, rather than overweight, and it definitely added to the illusion I was a man with good taste.

Despite the circumstances behind our meeting, it felt natural to smile back. "Mistress Shelby."

She laughed and looked around at the other women in the crowd as we stepped up onto the curb. "This isn't business, silly. Shelby's fine." She looked around at the crowd. "My dress is scandalous enough without our advertising anything else."

I wouldn't have called it 'scandalous'. It showed just enough cleavage and thigh to draw eyes -- mine included -- without being tacky. Had it been a decade earlier, it may have raised more brows, but in the much more relaxed atmosphere at the music hall these days, the white lace-trimmed black bodice and thigh-length black skirt still showed far better taste than the jeans and shorts several people wore. In fact, Shelby pulled the look off so well, it rivaled a fair number of the more classic evening dresses hovering about.

"There's nothing wrong with 'scandalous'," I quipped as I opened the door to the hall and stepped aside to let her in. "Makes a guy like me look good."

She reached up and ran her fingers through my somewhat salty, pepper hair. "Stop that. You aren't old, and you look quite good without an arm hang -- which I'm not, in any case." It was a comfortable gesture of familiarity that made the last vestiges of the unease tugging at my gut vanish.

I folded the umbrella and handed it to a valet. After giving up our tickets, we strolled through the crowd, working our way toward the indoor open-air restaurant in relative silence while she looked around at the framed playbills, posters and souvenir booths.

We chatted lightly about the crowd and the show, Dallas, and her drive, into the restaurant and through the high-priced buffet line. We both took an extra helping of rare roast beef and a lobster tail, and then we followed the maître de to our table. Shelby sat primly while he put the napkin on her lap, though I didn't miss her slight smile when she caught him glancing down her cleavage.

Her smile brightened even more when she saw me looking at the same place. "Thinking about dessert?"

I was in the middle of biting into a slice of roast beef at the time and wasn't at all sure whether she'd meant the timing deliberately or not.

We hadn't actually talked about what was on the menu, as it were, and I told her so with another glance at her breasts. "I didn't know they were on the list of options."

She speared a cherry tomato and brought it up to her lips. "Oh, the night's young. We'll see how the menu reads after

I'm

done with dinner." Her lips caressed the fruit, and then her teeth popped it.

I had

no

doubt she meant the timing then.

"How do you know you'd like being dessert?"

"If we get there, I'll know. Trust me."

"Okay, but how do you

know

?" None of her pictures had shown her breasts as anything more than pristine mounds of temptation. "It's not like you go there, after all."

"Oh, I go there. I just don't advertise it."

I raised a brow, my curiosity piqued. "Oh,

really

? You've never mentioned..."

She laughed at my response. "Yes, really. It's not something I tell many people. I have a reputation to keep, after all. Why do you think I loved so many of your pictures?"

"I just thought you were being polite."

"

Polite

is loving two or three, not two dozen. I've also read all your books."

"Really? All of them?"

"Every one. Are you ever going to do a sequel to

Carameled Teats and Dragonberry Ale

? It was like

Dungeons and Dragons

meets

The Story of O

. I loved it. And

The Gold Medal Rack

... I'm not sure what was more fun, the hunt, or the campfire afterward." She paused in the middle of bringing a bite of rice pilaf to her mouth. "Oh, and

Deal with the Devil

, what she did to him after he finished with her... Oh. My. God!"

I tried to hide my surprise. She

had

read all my stuff, really read it.

All the stories she'd mentioned were among my favorites, too. They all involved some pretty intense breast biting. Switch or not, I couldn't believe she leaned that far to the masochistic side, so I kept the conversation going on the assumption it was the outdoors settings of all three stories. "You like the outdoors stuff?"

"Yeah, and the rest. Definitely the rest." She dipped her fork toward her left breast, watching me watch as the tines dimpled her creamy flesh. "You make the banquet scenes..." She glanced quickly at the surrounding tables and then slipped the fork beneath her bodice. When she twisted it, there was no doubt where the prongs jabbed. "...

so

hot."

"You think so?" I said, carving another bite of meat, very happy the tablecloth kept my crotch hidden.

She speared another cherry tomato. "Most definitely. Almost as hot as

A Night at the Nutcracker Suite

."