~ Sunday night at The Floating World ~
I saw him walking through the Dungeon dragging his kit behind him. I popped up from the floor, leaving my things behind, and walked towards him.
He looked left, outstretched his arm, and extended his index finger towards me.
“Well, I guess I’m getting needles then.”
Amethyst followed close behind Lynk as we all assembled in the medical play area.
I disrobed and hopped onto the massage table they’d covered with chux for our scene. As I looked up at them, Amethyst warned me, “Him Sadist.”
“Please be nice,” I begged.
“I’ll be nice,” he answered.
His first needle in, I screeched.
“You said you would be nice.”
“That’s about as nice as I can be.”
Amethyst explained needles in the thigh hurt more.
One in towards the left, one in towards the right, both buried, and cherry topped with a half inch needle stuck straight in at the center of the two. The configuration was matched on both my thigh.
On my chest, Amethyst practiced layering needles for the first time. Hint for all you needle tops: a great way to mindfuck a needle bottom is to mention how something you are about to do to them is your first attempt at it. I know that was not Amethyst’s intention, but it worked quite well.
Each breast received a button, three layered needles, the tips buried.
It was not long before I was floaty.
Amethyst tapped on my buttons. Lynk took great joy in flicking the cherries. I high-pitched-low-volume screamed. And each time they stopped, and I took a breath, the endorphins washed over me.
The meter of my voice slowed. Sentences elongated in time to deliver, while also shortening in number of words.
Lynk often flicked at my cherries, my high pitch calls piercing my ears. Amethyst redded for me on those, ceasing his evil fun.
To spice things up, Lynk practiced some of the sadistic massage he taught in a class session earlier that day.
Choosing the meaty sides of my thighs, he pressed in and ran his fingers down the length. I guttural screamed and wailed from the pain. I cried, tears welling up. I never told him to stop.
A little worried, in my slow half speak I assured him my crying was good. Sobbing was a good sign. He assured me he had no intention of stopping his manipulations unless I told him too.
Switching spots, Amethyst tapped my thigh pricks while Lynk sunk his finger tips into my chest, working the muscles above my needles, an area sore from previous play. (Punching my chest is a pretty popular activity.)
Later, our scene over, Lynk hugged me hard, pressing into my chest, my ow-ing groans inciting his glee. To reiterate Amethyst concise description, “Him sadist.”
As we finished up, a trickle of blood tickled my ribs. Since we’d played with the needles more in this session that in my first with Amethyst, I bled quite a bit.
With a mirror, I saw my pretty buttons. When I sat up, I saw my boxed cherries. In all, twelve needles were stuck in me, twice the amount of my first scene with Amethyst.
I still like being a pretty pincushion.
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