Decisions, decisions

A night with Mr Smith and I'm trying a new way of scene setting. I put a selection of toys on the bed, including some new ones we've yet to use.

"Lay them out on the bed. In order of what you want to have done to you."

I like creating the illusion of choice. Or rather, the dilemma of choice. I'm interested in seeing what he does. At first he hesitates, then when it becomes clear that I have no intention of helping him out he starts to lay things out in a pleasingly methodical fashion, picking up each object and placing them on a scale.

I encourage him to examine the toys, get a feel for them and to talk me through what he is doing - half of the skill in domination is in listening and paying attention to the submissive (which can often include creating situations that force their hand, such as in this case).

The objects we've played with the least go at either end. I'm pleased that he has selected some new things to try, it adds weight to my theory that part of his submission is about being encouraged and driven into new activities, especially those that he might be a little scared or intimidated by.

The knife, the inflatable anal plug with penis sheath (I was rather cheered by the acquisition of this little number) go at the "most wanted" end. The pinwheel, dental tools and chopsticks go at the "least wanted" end by the cold steel handled rubber whip and the heavy flogger.

I then tie him up and blindfold him, giving myself some time to absorb this new set of data. It would be easy to go simply for one side or another: building up through pleasant to unpleasant if I'm feeling nice or vice-versa if I'm not.

The "pain" items are all at the far end, which sits in with his judgement of himself as not a masochist. The sharp things are at the furthest point followed by floggers - this is a useful bit of information as it lets me know that he likes thuddy, stingy and sharp in descending order of preference. But there's more going on here, more to think about than just a scale of desire. It's about what drives that desire and the context for it.

The things he really enjoys have gone in the middle, so it's not as simple as "bad" and "good". As suspected these are all anal penetration toys - generally pleasurable, though sometimes a little difficult, well within understood parameters. They are those which he is familiar and comfortable with: part of the "everyday" tools of our interactions and represent the kind of fucking we often do, which I know he responds very well and positively to.

I can use these frequent flier items to judge his thoughts on the newer things. The knife is graded alongside the anal vibrator which packs rather a punch and can be difficult for him to take: he enjoys the sensation but needs a good build up and it causes him a lot of tension and pressurised orgasm build up which may or may not come to fruition. I can mirror those responses onto knives - something he wants to try but is unsure about the outcome. I'm especially interested that the knife has gone at the other end to the rest of the sharps, which makes me think there's something about knives themselves that merits exploring.

Behind closed doors

I had actually imagined that I would arrive at Chiaroscuro's birthday, share a drink or two then be on the last train home. Why I thought such a thing is beyond me. I think the turning moment might have been when I took off my dress and threw it at a young man's head, perhaps in a very basic sort of mating ritual.

So instead of the train, I find myself (a curious yet apt turn of phrase) happily between Dandy and Boy Wonder, all of us in our underwear, all of us running newly purchased pretty knives - including a tanto that I have slightly fallen in love with - on each other's skin. There are hot bi boys everywhere, and a beautiful girl. We are all, for want of a better word, fooling around. It is wonderfully explorative, especially given that there are people here I have never played with yet with whom I click very strongly.

I clearly have no intention of leaving. Especially once Mr Smith expresses his intent to arrive. At which point things get interestingly complicated. I am pleased that my boy is coming, but also cautious.

This will be a challenge for him, he will be out of his comfort zone. This would be the first private BDSM party for him, he doesn't know many people, the balance of play and players is against him (he's straight). This will be a challenge for me because his behaviour reflects upon my skills as a dominant and trainer. It's especially important here because the group is small and well meshed. Unlike loud and busy club environments, things will go noticed. This is a very D/s environment with relationships described in those terms first and foremost. Actually, it's a very pleasurable space for me to be in, a normalised D/s space where one is able to talk clearly and freely about the sort of rules someone is under before you might kiss or touch them.

But all of this is still alien for Mr Smith for whom submission is desired, but difficult and sex is still framed in a swinging / hetero-vanilla conquest context. The sort of protocol that Chiaroscuro can expect in his own house is very similar to the kind I enjoy and hence the sort that I want my submissive to eventually deliver. Then there is the fact that I understand how things work which is probably why the play we were doing felt instinctual and natural, and so might fall into the trap of not preparing my boy well enough because things were "obvious". I also didn't want to throw lots of house rules at him in case that triggered a fit of D/s induced panic. I wanted what we all wanted: to carry on having a great party.

All in all, it wasn't going to be an easy bar for him to reach, nor for me to help him reach. As it turned out, he did make mistakes, partly down to nerves and partly down to inexperience. The mistakes themselves aren't as interesting as what happened as a consequence: punishment. Together with Chiaroscuro we discussed and agreed what should be done, then summoned him.

It wasn't a complicated thing, fortunately. But I was anxious all the same, worried it would not be done, that I might have to force it and what if I couldn't? I knew that we were playing at the very edges of all the things he was deeply uncomfortable with, particularly around perceptions of himself as a submissive male by other men.

First came the public apology on reluctantly bended knee. Eventually. With a request for a repeat due to lack of sincerity. Then came the rest. A bare-bottom beating, in full view of all. And a thank-you. Teeth were gritted, and his awkward embarrassment and nascent impotent anger were evident. The punishment was hard won. It was nowhere near as gracious nor elegant as it could have been. He is not a natural submissive, which in many respects makes this whole process more pleasing and fascinating. But it was done. And the first time such a thing was done, which marks it as special and valuable in my eyes. As I watched I both winced in empathy and swelled with a certain pride. How he took it (mostly) like the man he will become, the one I see flashes of every now and then. The submissive I will make of him. That we will make together.

Later...

The needles go in. One after another after another after another. They are cool little slices of life, tingling and sparkling as they go. They sit next to each other, chattering with a buzzing pain that isn't really pain. Yes, the MDMA is helping them along in their conversation with my skin, with my flesh, allowing the spreading warmth to mingle with the shuddering chills and wrap me up in a full metal jacket of sensation. Once they are all there I float in them, as they seem to float in me. I get up, move around and let them take me where I might go.

Eventually they come out. I rest myself down on Mr Smith's chest. Chastised, leather mitts on to prevent any more unfortunate knocks. One by one by one, Chiaroscuro takes the needles out. I feel the blood slip down my naked shoulder. My eyes are closed. His body is warm. It is one of those absolute moments of BDSM perfection that you want to go on forever.

i am basically wallowing in my own personal piece of heaven. I haven't bottomed in a long time, and tonight just felt right. Full of moments of animal pleasures from all ends of the scale from the simplicity of kissing for hours, of almost constantly being held, stroked, of holding and stroking through to the deep thrill of the taste of blood and the almost reverence with which it was offered and accepted. Everything fell into place, without formula, planning or even intent. The balance of people, the space, the way we interacted. Freeform bodies in motion. Things were done because they were desired, connections created and acted upon. I am not sure whether it was the privacy of the event, and this for me is almost the definition of private play. An intimate group of people sharing kinky desires.

The pain barrier

"What do you feel like tonight then?" Mannequin is a little poorly with a cold, half curled up on top of me at a quiet gathering of The Ladies Who. She squirms a bit in my lap and brings her face close to mine: "pain"

That's it. The one word. That's all I need. My eyes probably glinted with greed and pleasure. I know what it is to want pain, to have something inside that needs to come out through your skin, the kind of frustrated charge that builds up. But is that the same as what she gets when she needs pain? I'm not sure. I know from conversations that I can hit her harder than I have been, she's got a small frame and little body fat so I've been erring on the side of caution, but I know I need to get over that.

I strip her down slowly, tie her to the St Andrew's cross. I start to pat the backs of her legs, bottom and shoulders. Light touches, but firm, then building up. As I hit harder, I concentrate on her bottom, cupping a little so I'm hitting the "sweet spot" just where the curve meets the top of the thighs. More and more I'm relying on my hands to deliver pain, I have better control of both my impact and of measuring the response. Also hands can get places that tools can't. Fingers pinch and dig in between muscles to grip, pull and grind something half way between a deep tissue massage and a bruising thrust. There is a freedom in hands and a lustfulness of simply clutching flesh.

After a while, I position the Sybian underneath her spread legs and sit her down on it, turning both the vibration and rotation on mid-way, then continue to spank her. As I build the blows to a peak she moans and then starts to scream, I stop for a few seconds then start again. I switch to a long crop to give a contrast, striking both against her breasts and bottom.

The screams are hot. I love her screams and I feel myself get wet as I hit her as she cried out. But they also concern me. I'm not sure whether I'm reading the screams correctly - are they a warning signal or a signal that the "right" level of pain has been reached? We haven't done much with pain before and I'd rather give less good play than too much bad play.

I've reached the dominant pain barrier. This is the point that exists for the person delivering the blows, when giving pain becomes difficult. My empathy is counting against me, as is my own memory of submission. I realise that what I was aiming for was a less extreme version of my own experiences with the balance of pain and fucking machines. But why did I feel the need to tone it down? After all, I enjoyed those extreme experiences: they were hard going but they were also powerful and wonderful.

I am letting my view of her as "delicate" become a barrier to delivering SM. This attitude works very well for dominance - I am the strong one who is protecting, authoritative and in control. A curator of a beautiful porcelain object. Look, but don't touch, I want to tell others, and the warning is holding true for me as well. Ultimately, I have a very contrary set of impulses. I want to hurt her. But I don't want to hurt her hurt her. I care for her and she is "mine" to look after, which means not breaking her. I am perhaps stopping too soon and being too gentle. It's not a moral barrier. I don't feel bad for hitting her, or as if I am a bad person for wanting to hit her, that at least is one quandry I haven't faced yet, the much talked about "dominant guilt." For me, it's judging the exact quality and quantity of pain to give her.

We haven't had a big discussion yet so it might well be that what I did give her was enough, was the right amount: I hope so. It might also be that there is a need for me to put myself through the pain barrier: to push her to the breaking point and to dry her tears afterwards, wrap her up in a blanket and fuck her.

Darts of pleasure

Needles are a rare luxury for me, and needles with Empress even more so. She is, as I was enthusing (slightly wobbly voiced and wobbly knee-d) later on exceptionally good at it, not simply the technical ability but the entire experience which captures her enthusiasm for the art and for you as a subject of her skill.

"I'll just strap you down, for safety" I can hear the grin in her voice and it makes me grin too - one thing about a Ladies Who... meet up is that there's a great balance of intense play with a very light-hearted attitude underlying it. Fear and tension are created, yes, but also dispelled and expurgated. Plus there's cake, and often champagne which tends to soothe mostly everyone. I only had a glass and a bit though after being reminded of the need to not pour blood all over the floor.

She puts me on the bench and ties me down after I've stripped down to my pants. I relax into the soft leather covered pads and let my arms rest loose against the metal bars beneath. I close my eyes and listen to the ritual rustling of plastic gloves, alcohol wipes being torn from packages. The liquid is cold on my bare back and makes me gasp a little, which then becomes a nervous giggle. It's been a while since I've played with needles - a long while. I know that they hurt. I know that I like them. I can't remember what the balance feels like. I breathe out and try not to clench my muscles.

The first one goes in... Then out. That's when they hurt. A bright, light pain that makes me wince for less than a second before sparks and flashes appear behind my eyelids and the high kicks in. I don't know where it comes from, it's like the world disappears from beneath me and I am floating where once I was lying in a room. Everything is buzzing. My breathing slows and I become very conscious of my skin and my presence within it: the blood just under the surface. I am a space, warm, wide and deep. It's a little like the moment just upon waking, when everything is calm and numb and not quite present within the real world.

More needles. Sharp and hard when they puncture the skin on entry and departure, like the briefest, cruelest kisses. Once there, lodged like lovers under the epidermis they are snug and lively. The feeling is similar to electric pads from an E-stim unit - an ongoing sensation that has no physical force behind it. The closest and best analogy is the shiver that runs through your body when you take an Ecstasy pill, that increased awareness and sensation, the hot/cold wash of reaction that is the first flushes of a body in mild shock.

There are noises in the background. Voices talking. Someone is screaming. It provokes little response in me, as if heard from the bottom of a well. Murmurs and moans. I can see the floor when I open my eyes but I'm not really looking, not really taking it in. I am being taken in, instead, falling freely into the blank space of spreading, dreamy sensation. And it is very dreamlike, both at the time and afterwards. I tried to describe the experience at a munch the following day and I suspect the questioner found my free-associating a little vague and disconcerting, but it's impossible to be precise. Now, a few days later I'm stuck in the usual place of not really being able to remember it, although the marks are still there, thin red lines over my shoulder blades. Fine razor slices. When I touch them I can almost call to mind the wicked pleasure they are a memorial to - but only just, like a wil o' the wisp it is beyond my reach.

Waves and particles

Sometimes, the doll project puts me in compromising positions. Like at Sweet Torments, over the weekend in which I was dressed up as a "chav slut". White tracksuit, gold hoops, oodles of lipgloss, white stilettos and leopard print knickers. All class.

I was fairly relieved when it was time to take my clothes off. There was something exceptionally strange about being in the wrong uniform - feeling out of place and as if I didn't belong. Naked, I was more clothed in the conventions of the group, I felt more a part of what was going on. There was also the sense that in that choice of outfit (admittedly, chosen for me by The Professor) I was slightly taking the piss - which I wasn't, I hasten to add. Also there was an element of feeling like I was playing a game of BDSM, by poking holes in conventions, and I wasn't sure whether that made me an acceptable act of comedy or a shameless tourist. No-one complained, a few people laughed, a couple even thought it was hot so overall I don't think I offended anyone. I did stick out, and unusually for me, the exhibitionist it was uncomfortable. A woman in white velour in a sea of black leather.

Once laid out on the bench, I began to feel more at home, relaxing into what turned into an amazing double-domming session with The Professor and O' Hara, a female friend of his who I'd only be introduced to a few hours earlier, however, The Professor and I have had a couple of discussions regarding what was acceptable and what wasn't, and ultimately, I've known him for long enough to trust him and those around him. I wasn't wrong.

Cotton wool pads go over my eyes and clingfilm is wrapped tight around my head and neck. After the briefest of pauses, a finger pokes a hole into my mouth so I can breathe. Cool gel is rubbed on my back and there's the crackling hum of an alternator. I feel my muscles relaxing, melting slightly into the bench as they take control of my body, moving me through different levels of sensation from giggly warmth through to the deep, blackness of pain-causing-sorrow.

The play works in two ways at the same time, like particles and waves. The waves keep me going. They are the regular inputs, the ongoing build that peaks and troughs, each time allowing a pause or gap for me to catch my breath, to reassure or be reassured that I am fine (more than fine, that I am giddy with pleasure and submerged in a rolling arc going onwards, onwards to a crescendo). And after each pause, the build starts again, a little higher and heavier than before, so that each crest is harder than the one before and thus I move inexorably onwards. Within each pause, the sensation softens utterly, turning me to jelly, but never stopping, never leaving me alone or uncared for. Within each wave, the type of object used and the pain received changes, getting more powerful - hands become floggers become heavier floggers.

The particles are the interspersed dots of sudden sensation, from many different sources. They make me jolt, jump and scream. Unlike the wave, they are unpredictable, they do not build, they are fleeting moments of pain. Arriving then gone. Darts of electrical current, stabbed through my inner thighs, bites to my shoulders, bottom and upper arms that plunge me into adrenaline thumping fight-or-flight responses. Later, there is a knife, pressed against my back, my neck, my face and then against my cunt and clit in repeated, controlled stabbing motions. Just as the wave reassures me, the particles panic me - that wet-mouthed awareness of fear and helplessness, of not knowing what is going to happen or when.

They work in tandem. The waves carry me down, heavy and pressing into thick and fuzzy headspaces. The particles push me up, keeping me sensitized and crackling - they also hurt with the sharp, bright pain that forces gasps and cries out of me whilst the waves make me want to purr and moan. Finally, towards the end, something in me lets go and I am caught between these endless, increasing, alternating sensations. I start to cry. This time I know where my tears are coming from, and they are almost deliberate. Here is a safe space to cry, to let out that sorrow and loneliness that comes upon me in a controlled and managed scenario. Like primal scream therapy I'm using these sensations to force an internal catharsis, choosing how and when I will mourn for my own (still present, still keeping me cold) heartache. The pain is a trigger in and of itself, but together with those shadows in my heart it becomes something more as I let my emotions mingle with the physical sensations. It all pours out. I cry. It is wonderful. They are wonderful. I'm high as a kite, half-curled up in pain and all-over-shuddering from the pleasure of it all.

When they stop, I stop crying, almost immediately. Something which The Professor found curious and at the time I could not explain but now can. The pain is a channel through which I can express these emotions. When it's their I can let them go. When it's not I chose not to, because that is what getting better is all about, being able to put these feelings in their place.

Dolly Part 2

When he picked me up of the floor, Captain kept me hooded and blind and lowered me onto what felt like a padded bench with a rigid dildo in the centre. I'm wet from earlier, so I slide on easily enough but the angle is uncomfortable and there's no adjustment I can make to avoid it. I'm stuck. Impaled. He picks my heels off the floor and straps my calves to my thighs so all my weight is pressed down. A leather sleeve pins my arms together behind my back, arching me slightly forward, increasing the thrust of the dildo inside me. Clamps attach to my nipples and are pulled taught - the sharp pain takes my breath away but also centres me somehow, unlike the dull pressures of the hood, the sleeve and the penetration this is a "high" pain, cutting through the soporific, submissive daze of sensory deprivation and bondage. It's a cruel pain also, if I move, it pulls more, each time clearing me out of the refuge of sub space and refreshing my ability to feel everything keenly.

The dildo starts to move, in what is probably a rough circular motion, but it's hard to tell. Then the entire bench starts to vibrate in a heavy, powerful washing-machine or motorbike fashion. At first, the sensation is mostly pleasant - the throbbing waves between my thighs make me tense, and the dildo is actually less uncomfortable now it is moving a little. I feel myself start to get into the feeling. If I had free reign I'd probably be squirming against the machine fairly happily by this point. The sensation is against the whole of my cunt, not just my clit, so there's an overall feeling of hard pressure with elements of pleasure. It's a long way away from the gentle, precise masturbation that I use to come so I don't feel as if I am going to orgasm, but I feel as if I perhaps could with practice and smile beneath the hood.

Then he turns the power up and everything changes. I'm not being pleasured, I'm being abused. The pressure is enormous, the vibrations like being punched. The dildo is a stiff, invasive rod hammering at the inside of my cunt, shattering my insides. I'm not riding the sybian. It's riding me. And I'm screaming. Not the gaspy, panting screams of the pre-orgasmic woman, but the loud, bellowing bottom-of-the-lung screams of pressured pain. For the first time that I can remember I shout "stop, stop". Angry at myself for such a failing. It doesn't stop. I keep screaming - by this point I am crying with the effort of screaming.

The machine is forcing itself upon me and there is nothing but deep, dull, internal pain. I can hardly describe it because the experience was so intense my mind is finding it hard to re-conceive and my memory of those moments is deeply shaky. I think he pulled on the clamps on my nipples every now and then. I think he hit me in the face. I can't remember. Describing the effect of the machine itself reduces me to bad metaphor: it's a pile-driver; a torture device. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I can't twist away, can't alter my position, can't do anything but scream. The pain is bad, but worse than the pain is the knowledge that I might have perhaps enjoyed this. That perhaps I should be enjoying this and experiencing 4,000 orgasms a minute but, for some reason to do with my own biology, yet again I cannot orgasm. I am broken, somehow. And I am failing to deliver. Not only does it hurt but my pain is futile - there is no final release to this, only a collapse into nothingness and more pain, the sorrow at not being a good girl who can come to order, at not being able to take what I am given.

After some time, I really do not no how long, it could have perhaps only been a few minutes, he turns off the machine, removes the clamps and the hood, he half pulls, half carries me over to a nearby sofa, laying my head down on the seat whilst he fucks me briefly doggy-style. That this hard, cold fucking is a welcome respite says much about the machine. He pulls out, and I wait for more pain, more punishment, something in response to my failure to come. But that doesn't happen. He sits down with my, letting my head fall against his legs, he touches my hair briefly, telling me I'm a "good dolly" and I almost collapse with relief. I broke. But he wanted me broken.

Build up, break down

My arms are tied behind my back, I can hold my elbows in my hands, wrap my fingers around myself. The rope is tied to a suspension hook high up, I can lean into it, testing the strength of the bonds and, by inference, the strength of my body. Being tied up makes me feel strong: regardless of whether I can or cannot loose myself, I feel as if I could. I can imagine my muscles flexing and snapping these cords. The fact that I couldn't is irrelevant, it's the place my mind goes. I feel very powerful. I am tied up because I am a strong, potentially dangerous thing. There's a sense of the animal about it. I don't speak but I do feel a little growly, not in an angry way - it's more playful than that. If I were a cat my tail would be twitching, waiting to see what happens next. Although on the outside it may seem as if I am the captive, inside I am the one toying with the situation, grinning and biding my time. I am poised, elegant and perfect. I am also beautiful, displayed like this, arranged and put in place. There is a strong sense in which the attentiveness of the Dom becomes an investment of some sort of power, of time, of effort in the submissive, rather than the more traditional removal. I can feel it now, each touch and each tie. A certain energy. And I'm lapping up the attention and loving it.

After an hour or two, I'm back in the same corner of the room, but everything has changed. I'm on my hands and knees, cold, wet and shaking. A thick, padded collar around my neck, my head locked in place inside the iron circle at the front of the puppy cage. I'm outside the cage and I feel exposed, vulnerable. If I were inside there would be safety, I would be the strong thing held tight and Captain would be on the outside, limited in what he could do, how he could interact. Now I am the limited one. There are no ropes to hold me, just the heavy cage, keeping me down and in place. I can't see him, he's somewhere behind me - all I can see are the drops of liquid on my arms, resting uncomfortably on the rubber floor on the interior of the cage. I feel a wave of cold rush over me and I shivver hard. It's a full body shake, from top to toe. I try and hold myself still, legs spread in what has become an accepted position, arse raised.

He hits me. I don't really remember where and I don't really remember how it felt beyond the fact that it hurt. I think I howled. The pain showed me to be exposed, removing any last vestiges of strength that I might have had earlier. The only thing that remained to me was my capacity to withstand this, to endure, internalize and go with the pain. To take it from my soaking, trembling skin and hold the warmth within me. I've done it before, let it take me away and use it as a badge of how good, how well-behaved and submissive I could be. Not now. The pain was pain was pain. I was trapped and being hurt. He was silent and far away. I was alone with the pain which I just couldn't endure. I let go. I kicked, bucked and lashed out with my arms to catch the flail before it could land again. Then I broke down and cried. Not because of the pain, but because I had failed to take the pain, because I had been weak and unable to bear it, because I had tried to fight back as opposed to staying still. Because I had done something wrong. I was frustrated and unhappy with myself, with what little I had managed to do, with the pathetic quantity and quality of my performance.

Thinking back to that moment, talking to him about it later in bed, that had been a key point for me - the use of the word "performance" emphasising that much of what I had done thus far was exactly that, a show for his benefit, me trying to show off, flash my colours in a superficial rite of nothing significant. Doing it with mirrors. That moment was different. That was me, dragged kicking and screaming from my safe place of comfortable aptitude into something too hard. Something I couldn't do. A genuine break rather than a self inflicted push.

Sharps

The Photographer introduced me to needles a while back, and its taken me some time to compose my thoughts. It was a personal challenge - I'm not scared of needles, as such, however I do associate them with hospital visits, not being well and medical professionals being unable to find a vein then bruising my arms horrible. Junkie chic has never sat well with me. So I wasn't really expecting to get anything out of it, I was expecting it to hurt and that was it.

I lay down on my front, so I couldn't see it going in, partly so that I wouldn't know when to expect the pain, which would help me relax a little, and partly because the not knowing added to the excitement. I was certainly nervous, enjoying the feeling of trying something new, and of trying something that was pure sensation play rather than sexualised. First, he moistened the skin with antiseptic wipes, I like anything that has an air of preparation to it, it makes me feel pampered and looked after. Two needles were going into the flesh on the back of my neck. The pain was a lot less than I'd expected, mentally I think I was gearing myself up to something akin to my piercings. Instead it was a short, sharp little heat, one dart on entry, another on exit. Then a warm glow as the metal sat there, in my skin, snug as a bug in a rug.

The warmth spread, tingling and crackling as he lightly tapped them with his fingers. I felt myself go a little light-headed, nothing shocking or hyperreal - just a gentle sensation, like lying in the sunshine my nerves responding to this most soft of coaxing. It was very relaxing, nothing for me to do but revel in the way my body was feeling - I started to get turned on, domino-effect tumbling through my skin. It hurt again when he took them out, both from the pain and the release. Just a little loss, a little blood. Wiped up and cleaned, I went onto my back.

This time I watched as he put sharps into my breasts, above the nipple. Seeing the needles go in didn't actually have that much effect on how it felt, especially given that now I was no longer worried and in fact both eager and curious. This time it was a little shallower, but still gave the same pleasant buzz. He tried a few more, in the flesh just on my mons, the warmth creeping into my cunt and over my clit making me arch like a cat.

We didn't wrap it up in any particular D/s context, although I think it would be very interesting to try, perhaps some type of torture or collaborative art experiment. I can certainly see why it's a good thing to do in a club environment: the act of placing the needles, lining them up so they look as nice as they feel is certainly an art and I can imagine it's almost as fun to watch as to participate. Almost. Anyhow, we've stocked up on quantities of wipes and I'm looking forward to trying again.