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He released the clip.
The steel closed, the narrow edges digging mercilessly into the thin flesh below her lip. The pain was immediate and intense. Her instinct kicked in, and she curled up, reached for the clamp, tears pouring down her face.
“No.” He paired the barked command with pressure on her throat. His other hand grabbed one of hers, forcing her wrist to the small of her back. Still, she had one hand free.
Most pain lessened after the initial shock. Certainly, that was the way most nipple clamps worked. This didn’t. The pressure was continuous and biting.
She wanted it off, off, off.
Get it off. It hurts.
“You can take it, can’t you?” His lips were against her ear. “You’re a good submissive who takes pain when her master gives it to her.”
Her free hand, the one she had raised and ready to remove the clamp, dropped to her side.
Mal blinked, tears spilling down her cheeks, and a long continuous whimper escaped from the back of her throat.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “That’s it. Well done, darling. Does it still hurt?”
Afraid to nod because that would probably make the clamp jiggle, she made a small noise of affirmation.
He released her throat and wrist, then stepped back, silently waiting.
It was harder to handle without his hands on her. This wasn’t a fun hurt, it just hurt.
“Tell me where you are, Mal.”
Trembling, Mal raised her arms, once more lacing her fingers together behind her head.
To submit to this, to him, fulfilled her in ways that went far beyond physical.
Benson squeezed one of her elbows, his hand running down the underside of her arm to her armpit. The pressure was firm enough that it didn’t tickle.
The acute pain from the clip was fading to a manageable level. The way he was petting her, even if it was an odd choice of location, helped.
Until he pinched the skin of her underarm, seeming to test it.
Mal was in good enough shape, but she wasn’t muscular or athletic. Her arms were soft, and if she held them straight out, as she was now, they sagged just enough that she was occasionally suckered in and read some article, or downloaded a fitness app, that promised to give her “toned arms.”
Benson unhooked one of the largest clamps, holding it up so she could see it.
It was easily three inches wide. Mal shook her head, a tiny frantic motion that made the clamp on her lip jiggle and sent fresh pain shooting along her jaw.
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to keep herself calm.
“One larger clamp is going on the underside of each arm,” he informed her quietly. “The skin there is sensitive, but there are no major blood vessels or nerves. It will essentially be a bad pinch.”
Mal cried. These were no longer silent tears slipping down her face, but jolting sobs.
“Breathe through it,” Benson commanded. “You can still talk, so use your words if you need to. Understand?”
She murmured an affirmative sound, but he wouldn’t let her get away with that.
“No, say it.”
“Yessss, ’aster ’enson.” The B and M sounds were impossible.
“What color are you?”
