I have travelled so much in my life that I have developed a number of habits and routines; little things I do wherever I am in the world. These little fetishes have, over the years, become ingrained.
This time, arriving in San Francisco after an eleven hour flight has been no different. As soon as I walked into the room, before even removing my travel-creased jacket, I took my work shirts out of my Tumi wheeled bag and hung them in a neat row in the wardrobe.
They would be no less crumpled if I had chilled out for ten minutes or had a shower first. Instead they have been put away within 60 seconds of me closing the room door. I do it every single time I arrive in a hotel abroad.
But as I have that shower, check my email, remind myself where I have to be for dinner; in fact as I go through the typical routines of the lone business person arriving in a new hotel, lurking in my sub-conscious is the memory of what I have seen in the wardrobe. It becomes inevitable that at some time over the next hour I will be using it for a very different purpose than that which its manufacturers intended.
It was just a perfectly normal coat hanger, with two clips for my trousers.
Well two clips for your trousers,
Two clips for his trousers,
Or indeed, two clips for her skirt.
Or, in this case, two clips for MY nipples.
For as a masochist with an especially strong fetish for nipple play, the wardrobe is a toy box; the hangar is a toy. It has two harsh, bitey, demanding, serrated metal clips, capable of causing rivers of pain. But to me: it’s a toy.
So, as night follows day, it is inevitable that at some point I will lie on the bed, close my eyes and allow my hands to rub slowly over my self, eventually caressing my testicles and my prick and rubbing my nipples until I start to feel aroused.
I might be imagining my last session with a Mistress, when she touched me in exactly this way, allowing her thigh, covered in a sheer leather skirt, to rub against my skin. Her hands played with my nipples, squeezing them almost gently at first, then harder, preparing them for the harsher treatment to come.
Then, just at the moment when she would have reached for her clips, I reach for the hanger. I take deep breaths, readying myself, and hold the clips wide open, pressing hard against the strength of the steel springs. I hold one over each nipple, a little steel jaw with its spikey teeth on each side. This is a tantalising moment; an edge reached; a decision to be made.
I take a final deep breath and let them close. The effect is immediate. Like twin spikes into my chest; sharp and harsh, real pain radiating out instantly across my whole torso. It takes me over, sweeping aside the drowsiness from the flight, the jet lag, the torpor. In a moment I am wide awake, like an animal jumping straight from sleep to flight, focussed and alert.
I masturbate, revelling in the pain, in the rivers of sensation, arching my back, letting it run through me till every part of me is alive with it. I picture my mistress, standing over me, tugging hard on the chain attached to her harshest clips, as she demands that I bring myself to orgasm. And I do orgasm. For this is one orgasm that always happens, however tired, however unsexy the surroundings. I HAVE to come. Sometimes I come from the pain and the erotic images in my mind. Sometimes I will come because my body craves the release that I will allow myself only after I have orgasmed. But I always come.
Afterwards I remove the clips, letting the post pain/post orgasm peace wash over me. I feel invigorated and yet also calm; ready for whatever this business trip will throw at me.
Later, showered, relaxed and, ready for the evening despite the odd time zone, I return the hangar to the wardrobe with a smile, knowing it will still be there when jet lag brings me back to it at four o’clock in the morning.