Content note: This post contains detailed descriptions of getting pierced and doing needle play, and talks about blood in an erotic context. The interpersonal dynamics shown here are quite messy at times, because that is what they were.
She is a friend and long-term unrequited crush of mine and has a penchant for pushing needles through other people’s flesh, followed by a barbell or ball-closure ring. Making out with her is not an option since she “doesn’t see me that way,” but piercing is an intimacy she is willing to share with me.
She does my navel first. I go to her place, her room in a shared apartment, in a house that has seen better days. She sits me down in a worn-out armchair, then sets out her equipment around me. She kneels before me, between my spread legs, comfortably takes charge. Puts on gloves, sprays disinfectant, makes dots for orientation, hands me a mirror to check. Yes. Clamps my skin in a pair of medical forceps, uncomfortable but not painful. Sits back on her haunches, smiles up at me, gives me a moment. Still yes. Tells me to breathe, then pushes the needle through, into my moan. I’m not even sure it hurt, but it’s definitely intense. A bit more fiddling, almost like an aftermath, and the ring is where I want it. We both grin, collaborators in this act of self-determination. I can’t imagine doing any of this with a stranger, in a shop. We’ve built this trust in each other over years, and you can’t replace that with an exchange of expertise and money.
It is all very romantic to me.
Of course I come back for more.
Something about her makes me want to push my boundaries, face my fears, so I give her my mouth next. It doesn’t get any closer to kissing than this. Same house, same room, same chair, but this time she sits right in front of me, at eye level. I’m nervous, even though I know what to expect in terms of the mechanics. But this is my face, my mouth; so close to my breath, my voice. This is half on the inside, and that makes a difference. It really doesn’t get any closer to kissing than this. I trust her, though, implicitly. I wouldn’t be sitting in this chair if I didn’t. So she does it again. Gloves, disinfectant, dot, mirror. A ritual of consent. I do. Clamps, grin, breath, push, moan. I feel a little awkward because she’s still holding onto the forceps attached to my lip, stuck through with a needle, and I’m afraid I might drool. A reassuring smile appears on her face, so close to mine, and I let go of my worry. She captures another bead inside a ring inside my flesh. I’m giggly with pride and endorphins after, and she looks at me as if I just gave her a gift.
I find my first self-identified butch lover, and everything is different after that. She knows who she is, and suddenly I know who I am. Sex finally makes sense, and I’m rapidly shedding shame and shyness.
I’m not quite ready to do anything that explicitly is what I think is BDSM then, but I am ready to let her pierce my nipple because getting another piece of permanent jewelry offers just enough plausible deniability. We do a lot of things that offer just enough plausible deniability, even though the complete lack of innocence oozes through every conversation we have about them. Before she comes over, I make sure to put ice cubes into the freezer because she has told me we can apply them beforehand to numb the pain a little. This feels like an important part of the whole thing. She arrives, we chat for a bit, start making out (as we do), then interrupt ourselves. We have a plan to follow. I sit down on the carpet in my room, my back resting against my bed frame. She goes through her version of the ritual: gloves, disinfectant, dots, forceps. The pain of that clamp on my nipple is intense, and I need a moment to adjust. I only remember the ice cubes when she already holds the shiny needle between her fingertips, her eyes glinting with a hint of malicious pleasure. Within a split second, I decide not to say anything — everything is right the way it is, even if it’s not what we originally planned. I nod at her to go ahead and she does, her sharp metal piercing through my sensitive flesh. It hurts, but it’s also good in a way I don’t have words for, so I just moan again. I secretly like the soft pulse in my aching nipple when she fucks me afterwards, and I come hard on her hand, the same hand that has hurt me before. When I mention the forgotten ice later, she looks at me as if I’m really hardcore. I’m not, but I like that she thinks I am.
I am at one of my first BDSM play parties. In one of the rooms, a bare-breasted butch sits in a medical chair, relaxing into the padded back and armrests. She is surrounded by other women, some of them high femme, others more androgynous, all of them wielding small, sharp bits of steel, moving around her, weaving her into an invisible web of power and connection. Rivulets of blood are running down her chest and arms; she’s laughing. I stand in the doorway, watching them for a long while, speechless with awe, profoundly touched. I never cross the threshold into that room because I instinctively know that would be too much, too close. I cannot interfere with their magic, cannot disrupt the intensity between them.
After that, I keep thinking of blood with a yearning that goes beyond any words I have to describe it.
I know I’m going to to something about this yearning, eventually. I just have to find the right person, the right time, the right place.
Everything in me says it’s him. He is already making some of my longest-held dreams come true, and I’m quite infatuated with him. He also has eyes that light up with sparks when he talks about piercing others. So I ask him to do this with me, and he accepts. We go into the room, sit with the others, listen, watch, learn. The first drop of blood (not mine) appears, and my cunt and heart clench at how intensely erotic it is. I feel like my whole history resonates in this moment.
When it is time, we choose the corner where the sunlight falls through the window onto my naked arm as I sit on a table there. He puts on gloves, disinfects my skin. Just looks at my arm for a while, ponders. Pulls apart the wrapper, holds the cap of the hypodermic needle in his fingers. Strokes me with his other hand, palm fading to fingertips, feeling for the right spot, then settles into a firm grip. By then, everything but him and me is a fuzzy blur, the other people in the room faded to a background hum. As he finally pushes the needle into, then through my skin, my only thought is, finally. Arousal blooms through me, a long, deep exhale. I sink into subspace almost instantly, can feel myself opening up to this and everything else he may want to give me. I didn’t plan this, but I’m not surprised, and I’m not resisting this wave pulling me under. I can deal with the consequences of my feelings later. Right now, all I want is every little bit of this moment. Another needle. My eyes close and my head falls back as I breathe out; a response, an invitation. Yes. More. Please. His thigh glows heat into mine, my whole body attuned to him, even though he barely touches me. I never want this to end. There is so much that could be in the space between us. I drift into a moment of doubt, suddenly not sure if I’m imagining things, if he even wants me to be where I am. I gather myself, pull up from the depths a bit, then open my eyes to show him how I feel about this, about him; to silently ask, Do you want this? Do you want me? In response, his finger pushes my softness into the narrow line of unrelenting steel running through it, the one he put there. Dull pain radiates into my brain, pools heat between my legs. Oh god. Fuck yes. He watches me while I absorb the intensity, my spine softly undulating in pain and desire. Then he adds the third needle, sharply pushing through me a final time; I groan in delighted pain. I want to kiss him, badly. So badly. The ache of my yearning for him is delicious, and I don’t even want any immediate fulfilling of it. He once again presses his thumb into the places of my skin that are stretched across the needles, more, more of the same, and I keep melting. He keeps watching me. I realize I could probably come from this. But this is neither the time nor the place for that, so I swallow the urge to try. Right now, it’s enough to know I could. His eyes sparkle in sadistic glee, and I purr. Eventually, he gently tells me he’s going to take out the needles now, that we have to start wrapping this up. I’m surprised how sad I am at the thought, even though I know it’s a good decision. I ask him to make me bleed as he removes the tiny blades from my flesh, and he does.
A single drop of red, red blood trickles down my arm. I could cry with the beauty of all of this, and I don’t need any jewelry to stay behind to remind me that I really am a fucking romantic.
This is a catch-up post for a # Kinktober prompt I skipped before. The original prompt for this day was “branding,” but since I don’t have anything to say about that from either experience or observation, I chose to write about my early encounters with piercing and needle play as a different activity that also involves deliberately breaking the skin (and that may leave permanent marks). And it sometimes comes with bonus blood!
Obligatory disclaimer: I’m not responsible (or liable) for any of your choices. Do your own research and make your own risk assessment if you ever consider doing anything like this. My own information-gathering, decision-making, and consent-establishing process may not be entirely written into this story, but I knew exactly what I my risks were at all times.
Update (12 October 2019): This post has been chosen as one of the top 3 for the Wicked Wednesday prompt “piercings.” Marie Rebelle, who selected the top 3, said about it:
“This is an older post which I have approved to be linked, and I am so glad I did. The way K&P talks about getting her navel pierced, and then later her lip and nipple, makes it sound like a love affair, like romance, and that exactly what she says too when she talks about blood and needle play. This is a fascinating post, which the moment I started reading it, I couldn’t stop.”
Image source: Pixabay (cropped by me)