It's such a small thing, really; I can't believe I'm scared by it. I want you to do it... and yet I can't quite bring myself to let you. It's not the pain I'm scared of -- I've tasted pain, drunk deep of its dark waters, and gone back to its ever-flowing stream for more. This will be only a tiny flash of pain. No, it's not the pain that scares me. But something in me holds back. I trust you, and I know you are skilful with your hands; yet I seem unable to let you slip this tiny needle into the soft white skin of my throat.
Don't get me wrong, I want to let you do this. You're not forcing anything on me here; I asked for this and only my treacherous nerves are holding me back. Nearly all of me is longing for this new touch; but just one part of me flinches away every time you move towards me with that tiny splinter of surgical steel in your hand.
I have been kneeling, because that is how I wanted you to have me; but I soon realise that I will be much less likely -- less able -- to move away, to pull back, if I am lying on my back. So I lie down, and I feel every inch of skin on my body tighten with delicious apprehension. I'm making it harder for myself to back out, I'm surrendering even my instinctive reactions to you. I trust you with my body, I trust you to be careful with it even as you pierce the skin. I keep my mind fixed on the thought of you doing this, rather than dwelling on the actual moment of metal moving through skin.
As I lie flat on my back, you move to sit astride me, your weight and muscle pinning me down firmly. Before, I was too scared to stay still; now I'm too aroused, and I move beneath you, pressing myself against you. But you hold me in place with your strong thighs, as you move the hand that bears the needle closer to my exposed neck. I feel vulnerable, and your slow, deliberate movement makes me feel still more helpless; I am in the grip of something inexorable now. Of course, if I told you to stop, you would; but I cannot tell you to stop, and you know this. Because, you see, I want this. And I want more than this one piercing, I want my whole body to be held on a million points of steel. I want you to outline my body in glinting needles, I want there to be no part of me which does not feel the tension of the metal pulling at the skin.
And yet here I lie, frightened and hesitant, afraid to take the first step. Or rather, to let the first step be taken; I have let you take control, and you will not let me turn back now. You brush my neck with your fingertips and I feel a shudder of fear and excitement run through me; I realise that I am tensed like a drawn bow, my entire being waiting for this tiny arrow to penetrate my flesh. The waiting is hurting; I want it to be done, I cannot stand this torturing anticipation. My whole body feels as though it is frozen in time, poised on a knife-edge; my nipples are so hard that they ache, and for just one moment I wish that it was them that you were piercing... but I would even less be able to cope with that, when I am so scared even now at such a small thing. Such a small needle. Such a small piece of skin, there at the base of my throat.
Suddenly I feel you take this tiny piece of skin between your fingers, and all of a sudden I've closed my eyes tight, my whole world is narrowed to a single point of steel. You're saying something reassuring, but I can't hear you, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, the blood that is making my breasts and belly taut with arousal, the blood that is singing through my veins, the blood which will spring to the surface of my skin when --
A split second of white pain as you slip the needle through. The needle is so sharp that there is barely any resistance from my skin; and your fingers are dexterous and assured. It is done; and still I dare not move a muscle. I feel as though that sliver of metal is holding me in place; all my blood seems to be pulsing only in that tiny area of skin. Your hands are no longer touching me, but I can feel you looking at me even though my eyes are still tightly closed. It is an effort to open them, but worth the effort; you're looking down on me, nearly-smiling, your unwavering gaze pinning me in place more effectively than any needle. In that moment I know that I'd gladly give you anything you wanted; I'd go through that agony and ecstasy a thousand times so that you could pierce every inch of my body, I'd be anything you wanted me to be just so that you would fix me with that stare, just so that you would touch me -- whether with steel, or with fire, or simply with those hands that make my body melt like ice.
"Do you want to see yourself?" you say, and ripples of fear once again disturb the waters of my consciouness; I am irrationally afraid of seeing my skin holding the metal beneath it... yet, again, I want to look; more, I want to be made to look. I want you to force me to look, to see what you have done to me, what you have made of me; but you will not force me, except by your expectant silence which demands an answer, and your unflickering eyes which hold me in place, not letting me move until I submit. I move to nod my head in acquiescence, and my neck shivers with the tension of the needle; I manage a nearly-inaudible "yes" instead. So you bring me a mirror, and hold it above me; again it's an effort to look, but I do look.
I see a different person. This person is not the me I know; this tiny piece of metal makes her alien and beautiful. The needle glints with light reflected by the mirror; the metal is visible beneath the skin, and tiny scarlet beads of blood are forming at the points where it breaks the surface. And this is just one needle; this person here in the mirror could stand a million needles, letting herself be remade, remoulded beneath your hands. She could be an angel of blood and steel for you, she could let you capture her in a shining cage, weave her into a glittering web of pain. You are holding the mirror, holding her there inside.
You let me watch her for a time, then you bring me back to myself. A twitch of your fingers removes the needle, and I feel its loss; I am no longer pinned, no longer held. I am a marionette whose strings have been cut; my body feels weak and incomplete. I wonder if the girl in the mirror feels the same; or if she is frozen in her reflected world, caught in a dream. Afterwards, you hold me, you say things which soothe me, words which I need not relate here. Then you talk to me of next time, of more needles; of further, more beautiful agonies and ecstasies. But next time is light years away, and every moment with you is a shining precious thing -- but fragile, so fragile... I feel as though it would only take one breath to shatter the mirror...
But these are thoughts that there is time enough to have when I am alone, when these tiny wounds have healed, and when you are far from me in another country, bound to me only by a handful of shared memories. For now, I am content just to hold you.