by Tom A. Gordon
This article originally was printed at public.diversity.org.uk – Reprinted With Permission
BDSM Play Piercing
A young man with whom I have played before, in some fairly typical SM activities, recently applied to me for some very specific ‘treatments’ involving a bit of pain and major submission. This was an experienced young man, a member of an important Chicago SM club and an attender of their annual run. By agreement, the session was to have ended with a bit of intensity: a single needle inserted through his frenum, below (not through) the head of his penis. This was a major moment of bravery for him, for he was terrified of needles; it was almost a phobia for him. Even seeing a needle or syringe made him weak. For him, the whip was to be preferred to the needle.
Our SM session had come to an end with great satisfaction for both of us; we had done things which allowed me to take him on an exciting and challenging trip, and he gave himself to me in a way which made me delight in the gift. But the moment for his major challenge, his first experience with The Needle, had arrived.
My friend was not restrained: I had refused to restrain him and required that he voluntarily submit to the needle, and submit to the necessity of keeping himself under control. There was some anguished thrashing around as I made the usual preparations — the gloves, the swab, the alcohol. I suspect his anxiety was heightened by the smell of the alcohol, the snap of the rubber gloves as I put them on, the sound of the instruments being placed on the tray. He knew, of course, that if he moved at the wrong time there would be far more pain than the controlled, carefully targeted penetration I planned to provide.
As I approached with the needle, there was almost paralysis: no breathing, and a look of absolute terror, eyes wide open. It was as though he was in a state of suspended animation. I slipped his foreskin back gently and swabbed the frenum with alcohol. Then, as I penetrated slowly, so he would feel every millimeter of the fine needle, there was gritting of the teeth and a blood-curdling scream…of ‘Yessss!’ It was like air being let out of a balloon — he sank back on the table, almost crying, and it was from joy, not from pain.
‘More, please,” he said, looking up at me. He sat up partially, and aimed his lips at my left nipple, to suck it. After he sucked for a minute, he sank back again and said, ‘Let me try another one, please, Tom, just one more.’ I held a hand mirror so he could see what we had accomplished: a shiny inch-and-a-half needle crossed his frenum, and the foreskin was pushing against it as it tried to slip back over the head of his cock.
I began again with the alcohol swab, and ultimately there were eight needles in a row in the loose skin along the underside of his cock. After each insertion, I hugged him, gave him a kiss of appreciation, and he begged me for another needle, whimpering only a moment as he felt the slow penetration. I held the mirror for him again, and he inspected the needles as if they constituted a work of art.
‘I’m not done,’ I told him. ‘Two more. Just two.’ He looked at me directly, then nodded his agreement. I very slowly withdrew the first needle we had inserted, across his frenum, and he looked at me, puzzled, wondering why I had taken it out, but clearly terrified by what this might mean.
I slipped the forefinger of my right hand inside his foreskin and pulled the skin up over the head, stretching it beyond the tip of his penis. And then slowly I brought a needle to it — his eyes were wide with fear now — and slowly penetrated two layers of foreskin: the needle crossed from top to bottom.
There was a sort of strangled ‘Ahhhhh’ from him, and he gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes shut tightly, but I did not delay; I did not let go of the foreskin. With my left hand I brought another needle to the skin, and slowly inserted it from left to right through the foreskin. Now the needles made a cross; as I slowly released the foreskin, it could not slip back down the head. The crossed needles met at the bulls-eye of his piss-slit. I held the mirror for him again.
He seemed transfixed as I lifted his cock so the opening of the foreskin, with its crossed needles, faced the mirror. He sighed, and then cried. He reached up to hug me, and it was all I could do to avoid being pulled down onto the needles.
We talked then, with the needles in place, and he said that he felt liberated, free now of his fear, and somehow strangely energized by what he had experienced, even though he was also exhausted. I let my hands touch him gently, his nipples, his scrotum, and he loved it. When I removed the needles he smiled in triumph with each one. There were only four drops of blood, and he seemed amazed by that; I think he had imagined something terrible. The needle part of the session had lasted an hour, and we agreed that we would do it again sometime to explore other areas and allow him to experience different diameters of needles, and take even more time to experience the joy and the satisfaction.
This article originally was printed at public.diversity.org.uk – Reprinted With Permission
