Sensitive nipples

We watched the man practicing the ancient art of burning a canoe from the trunk of a tree. He was wearing the native attire common some 500 years ago -- deerskin leggings and loincover, and over one shoulder he carried a blanket of sorts. He was otherwise bare of torso, and the cold air caused his nut-brown skin to pebble, and his nipples to stand up.

The breeze from the bay picked up, making me shiver. I moved closer to my companion, seeking his warmth, and my nipple brushed his elbow, making me gasp. Normally sensitive, my nipples had attained a whole new level of sensitivity -- one so extreme that the barest touch sent out waves of pleasure-pain signals.

I had not seen him in a long while, but within hours of meeting me at the airport, my companion reminded me of his mastery of nipple play and brought me to orgasm that way. My nipples made an unconditional surrender, standing like flagpoles from the hills of my breasts. They pulsed with an ache I assumed nursing mothers must feel, and I found it most erotic that when his mouth smiled they tightened up.

There, by the burning tree and standing amidst the tourists, I wanted to peel off my shirt and bra and offer up my breasts for more torment. The look in his eyes said he knew this -- and bade me behave. Which I did -- after one more brush of my nipple against his sleeve.