I haven’t had many guest blogs that cover the pleasures of needle play. I’ve keyworded this for ‘sharps kink’ in general because this doesn’t always involve needles: sometimes people use staples or knives instead, but broadly we’re talking piercing here. Penetrating the skin. As is so often the way when my blog is lacking in a particular kink topic, the incredible Jenby Doll has an outrageously cool story to fill in the aching gap. Today she’s here to talk about what I believe to be one of the most romantic uses of staples ever to hit the BDSM community. Do not try to change my mind on this: it’s made up. Take it away Jenby…
Note: needles, staples, blood.
Stuck on you – a sharps kink odyssey
Let’s frontload the unsexy bits: I hate having to get stabbed. And it happens an awful lot more since I started hormones.
I can usually deal with injections but blood draws, which I now need every six months to a year (more frequently if I want up-to-date certs for sex work), are several bridges too far.
They always hurt in an unfun way and take the affected arm out of commission for anything up to a day. What’s more I’ve an annoying habit of turning a particular shade of grey which prompts those in attendance to run around like headless chickens, shove various liquids in me and order me not to leave the premises till I start looking vaguely human again.
At my most recent test the clinician asked if I might like to lie down while she took my blood. Game changer. But then she offered me a round of vaccinations, the first of which bored so far into the muscle it made my bone marrow blush and I temporarily departed this earthly realm. Cue the familiar panicked running about while I lay slumped against the wall, unable to move, speak or open my eyes.
I was still perfectly lucid however, my body never having quite cracked ‘fainting’. So I was aware of two people lowering me to the floor, mopping up a puddle of what it became clear afterwards was the water I’d just spilt, and (and this is where things start to get slightly sexy) feeling like an utterly helpless ragdoll.
The pain and nausea now fully subsided I was able to enjoy what is a strong contender for the horniest sensation of my life thus far, that of having no control whatever over my body as I was posed in the position I supposed I was least likely to die in.
When I came to I was asked if I had any chocolate on me, whereupon I reached for my backpack and produced objectively the most on-brand thing I could: a whole-ass advent calendar.
Needles to say, we didn’t complete the vaccinations.
Sharps kink: what’s hot about needles?
Incidents like the above are all the more absurd when you consider the fascination sharps have always held for me in a kink context. Many’s the time I’ve wished that the medical staff responsible for taking my samples could at least tease me a little to take the edge off. Or better yet that the NHS would outsource blood draws to dominatrices.
And I’m quite sure there’d be no shortage of science to back up such an initiative. I’ve had D-types with varying levels of medical training stick me with pointy things and can anecdotally confirm that the body somehow becomes orders of magnitude more robust when aroused.
When I’ve tried needles in a scene the pain somehow transmutes into something thrilling, the nausea becomes a pleasantly dreamy sensation affectionately known to all needleplayers as ‘the floaties’, and when one partner of mine asked if I fancied trying staples then barely waited for my breathless ‘yes’ to leave my lips before biffing one into my thigh with a staple gun, I didn’t feel a thing.
Until it came time to take it out.
With all this in mind, it should come as no surprise that when my girlfriend Star and I were looking to co-sub for the first time in our relationship, and were casting around for something intense enough for her first scene as a submissive in six years, but also manageable enough that we could both definitely handle it, our Dominants very quickly lighted on sharps play.
That’s how we ended up kneeling opposite one another in a dungeon, clad in latex and fishnets, trembling with fear and excitement as our Sir for the afternoon stapled a cable tie to my tongue.
In the background lazed our Goddess, teasing us with her exposed feet while Sir leaned over me to examine his handiwork.
‘Bit loose,’ he mused, ‘better do another for safety.’
I had been breathing a sigh of relief that the worst part was over with minimal pain, but suddenly the adrenaline was rising again as Sir drove a second staple home, this one considerably more firmly than the first, causing my entire face to crease in agony and giving Star a sneak preview of what was to come in her not-too-distant future.
In short order the cable tie was connected to both our tongues and tightened until we were drawn into a permanent kiss from which neither of us wanted to so much as budge, and as the drool began to pool, Sir and Goddess began feeding needles through our flesh like butter.
As we crouched there powerless to do anything to stop it, Goddess ran a Wartenberg wheel over our embossed flesh, eliciting desperate squeals into one another’s mouths, then she worked a stockinged foot between our torsos and toyed our tits with her toes, before remarking how thirsty we looked, taking a swig of water and letting it dribble down between our fused faces like some macabre water feature.
Our tongues, terrified of twitching even a millimetre, could do nothing but let it wash over them.
At last our tormentors appeared done with their masterpiece and produced a roll of pallet wrap, encircling us – needles and all – for safekeeping and drawing our bodies ever tighter in our enforced clinch.
Our friend Motti snapped a pic, preserving our predicament for posterity, and our Sir said it best:
Rodin had nothing on us.