I was chatting idly to a bloke in a pub on Tuesday. It was the usual amiable pub bollocks, just passing the time, as you do. Now, I can’t remember how the topic came up, but somehow we got onto the topic of nipple clamps. As you do.

‘I had a little manufacturing company. We used to make them.’


‘We used to make them. They’re quite complicated with all the adjustment screws, the foam padding.’

This is where it gets adult, so you can stop now if you wish. I have had some minor exposure to nipple clamps, since if you recollect the woman I had sex with in the school canteen, you’ll recollect the big box of sex toys she had. She had all manner of stuff, including a couple of sets of nipple clamps. Not my thing, but she was a big fan.

A comprehensive collection of vibrators, with and without flashing lights. An assortment of dildoes ranging from approximately life-size to the unfeasibly large. Butt plugs? Oh yes. Some of those were of a size that made my eyes water just looking at them. A rubber fist. Industrial quantities of KY. A bottle of Milton to sterilise things.

I understood the function of the table tennis bat, though I’d never seen one with such a distinctively shaped, and suspiciously highly polished, handle. The riding crop I understood, though it’s not my thing. Various sets of handcuffs, both plain and fur-lined. Assorted soft cords, such as you might find on a dressing gown, and that won’t leave rope marks.

There were some things I couldn’t identify. One was a length of silicone rubber or nitrile, about the diameter of the blue bit of a cotton bud, with a small handle or flange at one end. When she told me where that went, I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped, and I’ve been around a bit. As for the other clamp that was too small to be a nipple clamp, I’ll leave that to your imagination.

She was as mad as a bat in a biscuit tin, but boy could she be fun to be with when she wasn’t in a blind strop. She did have a temper on her.