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Afternoon program

“You are going to entertain me.

You are going to tell me a story.

It will involve power, and terror.”

I watched his instructions appear on my screen, feeling a familiar mixture of heat and fear rising with each command.

Heat at the power and easy confidence behind those words, in his knowing that I am compelled to obey.

Fear at the challenge of weaving a story out of thin air, in the moment, having had no forewarning at all.

And fear of the prompt:

“You are going to tell me about the next time I pierce you.”

My heart leapt at those words. It is no secret that I hate needles. The sickly drag of metal under skin; the twin pricks of pain as my skin is opened up and made vulnerable; the dull throb and enflamed swath of skin that persists long after the initial piercing; these are things that I cannot process.

It is also true that he pierces me on occasion. Because he can. Because it amuses him. Because it is an unmistakeable statement of his ownership. And, to further drive himself deeper into my psyche, he has trained me to come from being pierced.

I licked dry lips and cleared my throat nervously. How do I even start this? Where is the setting for the story? The context?

But even as the questions ran through my head, I was already beginning to visualize the scene. I could see the low, warm glow of his nightstand lamp. There is a body there, on the bed, lying face down on crumpled sheets.

Ah. Okay.

After a few false starts, I finally began.

We are in bed.

We have been playing – just as hard, and as primally – as we often do. I am lying facedown. My hands are tied in front of me – my wrists bound together with the remaining rope lashed around my waist, so that my hands lie between my legs.

I hear you move away, and the mattress shifts as you get off the bed to grab something from off the floor.

I hear and feel your body as you return. You set the object down on the bed. My heart begins to race when I hear the familiar “pop” as you open that black box. That terrible, black box.

I hear the soft crinkle of plastic as you withdraw 5 needles from the box. I turn my head away. I can’t look. I never can. You separate the needles, letting them fall onto the bed beside my body.

And, all the while, my lizard brain is screaming at me to move, to run away, to hide from the pain that I know is coming.

Instead, I hold very, very still. You’ve taken out the first needle, and I hear your voice above me, low and soothing. Speaking of your ownership. Reminding me that I belong to you.

I belong to you.

I belong to you.

I feel your fingers on my back, grasping for a chunk of skin.

I belong to you.

I try to mentally prepare myself for the sensation. It never works.

I belong to you.

It’s all I can do to not move, to not flinch at what’s coming. I breathe, breathe, breathe as you slide the first needle. In.

It’s all I could do, even in the telling, even in the imagining, not to cringe away and hide from that mental image.

I could feel the skin on my back responding, tingling and sensitive, as if in anticipation.

I don’t want to keep going. I don’t want to be pierced. But, at the same time, I do. It’s very confusing, Sir.

He knows.

I let out my breath in one sharp exhale. My skin burns. It always takes me by surprise, the sharpness of that pain. I never get used to it.

It never gets easier.

Even as I am collecting myself, the second needle is in your hand. You slide it. In. Through. And back out, underneath the first. I groan through it, still holding very still.

With each needle, it’s harder to not move, to not thrash around and relieve the burning pain in my back.

With each needle, I feel myself growing wetter. It is almost impossible to ignore, and my hands are right there, between my legs.

As you slide the fourth needle under my skin, you tell me that I will come when the fifth needle is embedded in me. That I will come. Because I belong to you.

You take the fifth needle, rest it against my skin.

Come, you command, as you shove it in.

So I do.

Categories: submission, writing
  1. October 22, 2012 at 7:51 am

    Love this story. I felt your fear as if it were my own especially when you’re thinking that you didn’t want to continue, you don’t want to be pierced but you do. I was right there with you sitting here at work, short of breath, my erection straining against the confines of my jeans.

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