This week’s incredible guest blog is by Morgan, who goes by @KinkyAutistic on Twitter and blogs over at Kinky Autistic too. When they got in touch to pitch me a guest blog about first time needle play I practically leapt out of my chair with enthusiasm: needle play is something I’ve seen done on other people but never had a go at myself, but something about it really appeals to me. And Morgan’s story manages to get right to the heart of some things that are deeply sexy about it.
Please note that – as with Cara’s guest blog from a couple of weeks ago – Morgan uses the honorific ‘Daddy’ to refer to their partner but everyone in the post is over 18. Also note that it will contain graphic descriptions of needle play, so please click away now if that’s not your thing. Morgan’s partner has a medical background, and knows how to use needles: if you’re planning on doing needle play yourself, please do your research and learn how to use them safely.
Needle play: my partner pierced my forearm with a needle – and I loved it
It was me who suggested it.
I don’t remember who first suggested it, during that hazy summer when my Daddy and I got together; we were both stumbling over ourselves trying to talk about all the things, so I honestly couldn’t tell you who introduced which kink into which conversation and when. I can’t even remember when my Daddy decided he was going to buy the needles; I just remember him emphasising that there was no pressure for me to play with them if I didn’t wholeheartedly want to. They lived alongside the scalpels and the gloves he’d ordered, inside a silver case, tucked into his office and out of the way.
Every time I think about that silver case, I shudder pleasantly.
I was fascinated, primarily, by how scared I was of the idea. I’d played with blades before, and with blood-letting. I wasn’t even that scared of needles in non-kinky contexts, as evidenced by my abundant facial piercings and my recurring attendance at the blood donor centre. Something about the idea of needles in play, though sent a shock of cold and visceral fear right through me. It wasn’t unpleasant, necessarily; it was a lot like queueing for a rollercoaster, in that the very thought of the physical experience in question shot adrenalin through me. I think my Daddy sensed my fear, and I think that’s why he was so surprised when I asked him to pierce me.
I was already deep in subspace. This is not always ideal for negotiation, but we’d talked about needles a lot – about the depth of the piercings, about the locations, about the sort of headspace I wanted to be in when they were inserted.
After having been beaten with a number of thuddy implements (including my Daddy’s fists, a flogger and a croquet mallet), I was in that headspace. The deep, rhythmic strikes that had reverberated through my arse and thighs had brought me into a meditative calm. I could feel my Daddy’s pride radiating from him, and I fucking glowed under it. I felt centred, and safe, and brave.
Still, I had to blurt my question out in one breath. “Can we try needles, Daddy?”
His eyebrows rose, and then so did the corners of his mouth, into a genuinely excited smile. He asked if I was sure, and I nodded; I was. He left the room to fetch the silver case, and I felt that rollercoaster-queue anticipation mounting inside my chest. I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.
He came back. I watched in absolute silence as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. They looked amazing on his broad hands – authoritative, clean and composed. A far cry from me, on the bed, naked and wide-eyed with my cheeks lurid pink.
From the designated needles-and-scalpels box, he took a strip of individually-packaged, single-use needles and tore off two. He placed them on the windowsill, in their packaging, while we discussed which body part he’d be piercing – or, rather, he suggested body parts, and I responded in a squeaky fear-flooded voice. Boobs? No, too vascular. Thighs? No, that’s scary too. Arms?
We settled on my arms. I was slightly less intimidated by that idea, having had needles in my arms for blood tests and blood donations, and I held out my left hand so that my Daddy could start wiping me down with disinfectant. I watched him steadily, methodically stroking the cold, disinfectant-soaked gauze over my skin and I found myself slipping back into the calm space my head had been in before. I stayed there, breathing deeply and watching his face, as he picked up and unpackaged one little needle.
It was maybe half the length of my middle finger, maybe the width of three hairs, and impossibly shiny. My Daddy’s gloved fingers held it stock-still a few inches from my skin, while with the other hand he gathered up a pinch of the flesh on my forearm. That moment, waiting for him to pierce me, was surreal, and long, and terrifying.
And unbearably exciting.
He didn’t warn me, except to say, “Look at me,” in a warm, low voice. I did, but my eyes flicked back downwards, drawn back to the needle by instinct – but his hand blocked my view of it, and I was only aware of its insertion when I felt a hot poke of pain. I breathed deeply, soothed by the familiar sensation of sharp, ringing pain, and I watched him withdraw both hands.
And I saw that there was a needle. Through. My arm.
It sat so close to my epidermis that you could see its silhouette under my skin, and its tip poked out from my flesh and shone under the bedroom light. It was in there. I realised, as I stared at it, that that had been the scariest part – having a foreign body under my skin. It hurt in the way all needles do, just a sharp sensation at first, and an odd kind of warmth while it’s in.
“What do you think?” my Daddy asked me, admiring his handiwork.
“I like it,” I breathed, “but can we be done for now?”
He set about removing it – which provoked the same sort of sharp pain, but at about seventy percent of its original intensity – and he pressed some gauze onto it as it oozed droplets of blood. At the same time, he kissed my forehead, and he told me I’d done brilliantly. I absolutely buzzed with excitement at my achievement, and I admired the bloody little holes at length.
Then we put away the silver case safely for use another day.