This is my boy’s version of our play with needles described here – Needles.
The needle you’re going to push through my left nipple is the second needle — the first has gone through my right nipple — and this second needle, though I don’t know it yet, is the one that’s going to make it hard for me to remember any of the needles which come after it, their order, the pain they bring, my reactions. I am naked and restrained, hands and ankles, and am flat on my back with you on top of me, straddling me, fully clothed, the weight of you an anchor which has so far kept me from floating off the bed and out of the apartment, through the ceiling and on into the sky. You unwrap the needle from its plastic, pop the protective plastic lid, and you ask me the question:
“What number is this needle, baby.”
“Two,” I say, watching the needle in your hand, watching then your eyes watch me as you gauge my reactions, and though I feel calm at this point I also feel like the bleeding little science project that I am, small and motionless, powerless to move, your weight on me a comforting anchor, yes, but also a threat to me, my underbelly soft and exposed where you are free to move, still in the armor of your clothes. The first needle had earlier passed through my right nipple with relatively little pain, which fact I chalk up to the endorphins which have been charging through my bloodstream since the minutes before you restrained me on the bed, me standing then up against the wall, you slapping my face once, twice, left side, right side, while I tried to stand still and tried to keep looking into your eyes.
“Are you ready baby,” you ask me now, leaning in and poised above me, and I think that I am ready, and I say that I am ready, and instead of watching your face, as I did when the first needle slipped in, I watch instead your hand guide the needle toward my left nipple, pinching the end of it and pulling it, elongated, towards you. And I think I do this — watch your needle hand as it descends — because, sometimes in these moments when I am a little bit scared, I try to send my mind out into yours: I am a science project after all, and so don’t have a substantial point of view, and it is nice to imagine myself inside your skin, in an attempt to feel what it feels like, to you, to watch me, to hurt me, to make me bleed or cry out, to penetrate my skin.
And so I am able to watch you push the needle through, but only for a second. The pain of it is total, the needle’s slide through my skin and out the other side seems to take (though it could only have taken a second) forever, and in that relative time my mind empties out, I am able to hear myself shout, I hear you make a noise that is a soothing and a comforting noise, and I am terribly touched by this sound you make and the care that I feel you feel for me, I shout again I think, a little stuttering cry as the needle finally comes through the other side (my cock, which has been hard throughout, suddenly seems far away from me, like it is a cock I am only distantly related to) — and I find myself wishing for a gag because the sound of this last crying out — it sounds half caveman, half little girl — embarrasses me, as do the gasps and the little cries which follow it as the pain lessens and my mind clears and focuses again.
And suddenly you are kissing me now, or have been kissing me before I have even realized it, and I am sending these little gasps and cries into the hollow of your mouth, and you are pressed against me, the length of my body, and my cock (it is your cock Ma’am) hardens again, and these are the last clear memories I make — a snapshot of a wispy trail of blood on my chest, like a smoke signal spiraling out of the pain throbbing in my nipple; a snapshot of your eyes softening as you drive a needle through the tenderest skin nearest the head of my cock — until you start pulling all seventeen needles, one by one, out of my body.