Swing Dancers Clothespinned

This is the final story in the five-part series portraying the romantic relationship of two Swing Dancers. It began with "On the Car Ride Home," moved through "From Swing Dancing to Love Dancing," on to "The Best--and Worst--Day of My Life." That third part depicted an intensely sensual experience for the two dancers, but it ended in a crisis. Eventually, in "Swing Dancers Revisit Marriage," they reached a detente of sorts, messaging each other until they could meet again for a reconciliatory Love-Dance, which is what this story, "Swing Dancers Clothespinned," is all about.

In reflection, I should say that I have written more of a love story than one of pure erotica. Not that there aren't plenty of erotic elements in each part, but readers might agree from personal experience that the intensity of the sensuality in a relationship is directly proportional to the fervor of the love. So with that kind of disclaimer, I give you the denouement of the series. Hope you enjoy the read! MM

It was a slow-building agony with intermittent severe pain, causing me to bellow at each pinching application. Her soft lips and mouth around my erect cock gave me much needed comfort, as she temporarily removed a clothespin from its rim to suck me for precious seconds, taking my mind from the hurting to the oral pleasure. But not for long. It was soon replaced along with another two clothespins which I had handed to her. And the agony mounted once more.

We were touching each other in a special way. Through the actions of pain followed by pleasure, we were making a promise that in the conflicts that would inevitably come in one way or another during our intended long relationship together, we would summon the strength to endure it, while we worked successfully through anything, large or small. And in the end, have a more enduring love for each other.

We had started the day a little hesitantly, reconvening our writing group after more than a month of being apart. In actuality, we were not completely apart, as we saw each other at our weekly swing dances, but unlike previously, we had driven separately there and back.

She arrived at my back door this morning in white blouse and vibrant red skirt. Her nervous smile betrayed a sheepishness, and my fidgeting signaled my embarrassment in how we had each mishandled our last love-dance mis-steps. Instead of pausing back then, asking for clarification, she had walked out of our gallery bedroom without a word. And instead of me reaching immediately out to apologize, back then, I reacted in my annoyance by turning off my feelings for her, rationalizing it to myself as "giving her space."

But my love for her eventually broke through. I started to really miss her. And, in my poetic entreaties through emails, I had thankfully touched her in a way which rekindled her love for me as well.

We had gotten together this morning, intending to write, and then, like usual, to share a lunch which she was going to make. But she forgot a lemon. I offered to make us a cup of coffee to share while she went back home to retrieve it, but I forgot to put a filter into the coffee maker so it malfunctioned leaving grounds in the mug.

Although seemingly an inauspicious start, the rest of the morning went well, beginning with an intimate, reconciliatory conversation on the couch.

With that deeper understanding of each other and a deeper connection, we moved to the kitchen table to read what we had written last month and had, in the intervening time, revised. Then we agreed on a prompt and wrote for a half hour more, read it aloud, and asked questions amid offering commendations.

We made lunch together. It was a kale salad with sweet potatoes, garbanzo beans, and pumpkin seeds, with an olive oil and lemon dressing. We ate in casual conversation, sipping wine, and gazing across the table at each other with loving eyes.

After lunch, as we cleaned up the kitchen, we talked about a possible experience to symbolize our month's trauma and eventual resolution. Although we both contributed to arriving at the final plan, it was she who had made the initial suggestion. I liked that she took the lead in that way.

She went upstairs ahead of me and got undressed, removing everything except her shiny red skirt. I got undressed too and wrapped a red woven Syrian prayer cloth around my waist. We sat facing each other on the red sheets covering the memory foam. We bowed to each other, and proceeded to "soul gaze," left eye to left eye.

Then we kissed briefly. I rose to put on some music, which I thought would be inviting for our shared experience. And, after fully undressing, we began. Our intention was to trade offers of a clothespin from one of us to affix to the other.

We began our exchanges. I put the first pinch onto her left nipple and she gasped. I took it off and swapped it for a clothespin with a less forceful bite. Although it still hurt, she exhaled, saying that she felt it to be tolerable.

I kissed her. I massaged her scalp, repeatedly running my fingers through her hair. Seeing the tension visibly diminish in her shoulders, I felt it was time to offer a clothespin of the same strength to her.

She put it on my left nipple. It hurt. A lot. I reacted by reaching for her cheeks with both hands and drawing her lips to mine.

Momentarily by kissing each other intensely, deeply, almost forcibly, we fought off the initial shock of the pain. Our hands mirrored each other, rubbing each other's shoulders, down our arms, around to our backs. Indeed, the tactile touches were overcoming the painful pinches.

We alternated. She gave me one, and with it, I placed a big bite on her right nipple. I could see this hurt, too, and repeated my scalp massaging as I kissed her.

And she, with the clothespin I handed to her, put one on my right breast. More abrupt pain led me to rush to anesthesia with kissing, our tongues alternately finding spaces to probe within the other's mouth.

We took time with these first four. But we were both eager to begin placing them in the nether regions. Distantly, at first. Incrementally approaching a swelling vulva and tumescing penis. And still at a gradual pace. Although at this time, we both agreed that it would be necessary to become recumbent.

She handed me one which I put on her left inner thigh, and she, with the one I quickly handed to her, pinched my left inner thigh. I was motivated by symmetry, so, with the next one she gave me, I pinched her inner right thigh. She was more innovative and attached my offering to my right buttock. These were felt, but surprisingly, not with the magnitude of pain we experienced with the nipple placements.

I couldn't restrain myself. My next pinch was placed on her upper right labia majora. I took a big bite into that lower lip and felt her tighten. That required us to draw close, she on her back and me on my left side, as the bite on my buttock prevented me from being fully supine. We kissed with the passion induced by pain--the urgency to substitute arousal for the agony of the requested sadistic act.

As we kissed, I reached into the urn for a clothespin to hand to her, when her pain had ebbed. We eased our tongues out and kissed lovingly on our lips, affirming our love even as we continued to torment each other.

She was primed. Taking my previous placement as a cue to where she should place the next clothespin which I handed her, she wasted no time. She put it on the rim of my glans. That really hurt, and the hurt intensified with the subsequent movements, the weight of it dangling from my erect cock pulling it in various directions as I changed position to reach over for her lips.

I became possessed. The pain made a madman out of me. Forcing my open mouth against hers, violently shoving my tongue inside, mashing my face into hers. I grabbed fistfuls of each of her breasts, and kneaded them, avoiding the clothespins as best I could. Her sighs of pleasure and frenzied kissing gave me a respite from the penile pain. We kept it up a long while, each of us needing lengthening relief.

But we were definitely entering a trance of sorts. My brain became mission driven. When she handed me the next one, I immediately affixed it to her upper left labia and quickly handed my chosen clothespin to her. Within minutes, she had four on her labia, and I had three on my scrotum and the one dangling from the rim of my glans.

We were handing each other one clothespin after another and attaching them in rapid succession. It was as if we wanted to ratchet up the pain to augment the pleasure which we would immediately summon to follow. The pain became bearable only in the moments when we could alter the sensation by comforting each other.

With one exchange, I ran my fingers through her now moistening hair, pausing part way through, then gripped it tightly. I exerted strong traction on the roots. Her "yes," was the permission I welcomed to continue, which I did until her agony was allayed enough for me to reach over to the urn to grab and hand her another clothespin.

After she placed another clothespin on my sac, she ran her fingers over my abdomen, then grabbed the skin in a claw grip and vigorously squeezed, released, squeezed again, then released for good. In my dazed state, all I could utter was an "Oh, yeah."

I placed another, then twirled my two fingers around her clit to soothe her. She relaxed her thighs, allowing her clothespinned labia to fall apart to accept my two fingers inside her needy vault. I continued my soothing swirls until the tension in her body was mitigated.

She fixed yet another onto my scrotum, and began delicately stroking my thighs and ball sac, around the attached clothespins, then up the underside of my cock. She mercifully removed the solitary one from the rim, which caused me to yelp from its release and from the burning which followed. But she gave me some of her tempering tongue and loving lips to mollify it.

After this brief reprieve, though, she replaced the cock tormentor--along with two more, all hanging on tightly to the rim of my cockhead.

I responded with one to pinch her clitoris between her labia minora, and saw her stiffen.

We were both losing touch with the outside world. The music, which was meant to create an ethereal mood, we could no longer hear. The only reason for existence was to first tease and torment, then to assuage and sedate.

Our kissing was lasting and lasting. Our hugging never seemed to end. Our few words uttered were breathy gasps, love-word bursts, sonorous sighs of satisfaction.

But the pain was unrelenting. There was only one way to move through it: we both needed to fuck.

She took the three clothespins off my thickening cock. I removed her clitoral clamp. Moving aside her four labial pins, I inserted my now massive cock into her wetting vault.

I witnessed a genuine relaxation of the tension in her face, and the slightest of smiles with every gentle thrust. My mind focused on the friction of moving my manhood inside her, her arousal lubrication adequate for our first plunges into oblivion. We relished the nearly complete relief that this provided for the few minutes of intromission.

But our intercourse was not without encumbrance. Clothespins on labia and scrotum shot painful arrows into our groin with every thrust, gentle though it be. And mashing each others' breasts with the clothespins attached brought reminders of the nature of equanimity: that even with joy, comes the concomitance of suffering. And with the delight of gliding in and out comes the agony of a clothespin bent over or twisted, yielding a yelp that could not be stifled.

But even so, so entranced, I pulled gently out and carefully rolled off her. While we kissed with abandon, I began the removal of the pinchers by taking one off her inner thigh. She responded by releasing the one from my buttock.

We alternated removal, some of them without much notice whereas others induced a shriek of pain, especially the ones coming off my scrotum. She apologized profusely, but it wasn't her doing that led to the pain. It was the nature of the undoing which needed to be done.

Eventually, access to our genitalia was unrestricted. I added some lubrication to my fingers, and I began massaging her clitoris and then slipping fingers inside her vagina and swirling them. Using a free hand also with lube, she rubbed my aching cock. Those arousal distractions got us through the last moments of agony until all the clothespins were finally removed and the burning feelings were largely extinguished.

Still in another world, I mounted her and inserted my painfully engorged cock into her painfully puffy cunt. She rocked her pelvis to meet my plunges. Slowly at first, then with increased rapidity, she urged me on. With every thrust we augmented our ecstatic state.

When I announced that I was about to come, she met me with a frenzy of rocking. I made no attempt to muffle my cries, just turning my head away so I didn't deafen my most loving lover. I felt her body spasm beneath me, then quiver as she came.

I continued to thrust until I could feel no more erectile stamina in me. I could feel myself deflating, but I could feel her pelvic rocking, urging me on.

So I rolled myself off and plunged two fingers deeply inside her vagina. I began swirling them once more. Within seconds she was gasping, rocking, quaking for what seemed like five minutes or ten, maybe it was fifteen or twenty. I don't remember how long. I continued to massage her womanly parts alternately inside and outside, giving her one pleasure after another.

Her body jerking slowed. The little tremors of her orgasms, which I had learned to recognize in our times together, began to lessen. So I slowed my swirling, softened my touch, and lessened the contact with her clitoris. I gradually eased my fingers out and twirled them outside her vulva, and then down one of her thighs, and up the other, easing the soreness from where I had clipped those multiple clothespins.

We lay there floating. Entranced. Unaware of the time. Just being together.

My dog came into our chamber and curled up against her feet, and her dog, near my face. Two canines unaware of where their human beings had traveled to, but knowing that they had been somewhere exquisite.

We were back to love-dancing. We had promised perpetual openness. Eternal honesty. And to explore the promise of a spiritual marriage.

We had known the pain of hurt, of separation, of silence. And ritualistically, today, we discovered that we had the mettle to not only endure whatever pain was sure to come from our remaining years together, but to emerge from it with a more profound love for each other.

But we agreed that we would figure this all out, not now, in our rapturous states, but in the coming weeks, when we were clear-minded, yet still connected in deepest love. Now was the time for now. The present moment. And the presents of our presence we had so willingly re-gifted to each other.