Synesthete

- When I say "needles", what comes to mind?
Silence in the "Needles and play" workshop room.
I'm thinking of that autumn evening with Egon, our first session on his birthday, and how his laughter irritated me. I used to whip him hard to shut him up, but he just fell over, struggling, without stopping laughing. I didn't know then that laughter comes to him like hiccups, out of place.
- Will you shut the fuck up?
No, he wouldn't shut up. So to get the silence he refused to give me, I tied him up, jute and hemp, 6 millimeters.
- And now," I squeaked, "let's get down to business!
- Really? he did, seeing little that could be more serious than the purple welts of English cane.
Her imagination couldn't make up for her inexperience. With a vicious little smile, I pulled out the needles.
- No! he shouted.
- Don't you? I don't get it. Either you tell me "orange" and I adjust what needs adjusting, or "red" and I stop right there, but "no, please, stop", I don't understand... Sorry, sweetheart.
Egon laughed harder.
- Perfect," I said.

Disinfectant on her skin, smelling of a pharmacy or dispensary,
the slap of latex gloves on my torturing fingers,
the sound of torn plastic packaging,
the discreet plop of the plastic tube I drop on the floor,
the silver sheen of the needle, bevel upwards,
a gentle push and the resistance of flesh opening up, shy and sensual, before suddenly giving way like a vagina that's too narrow,
a crunch of crumpled silk, muffled and sharp at once in my ears, my attention, my being sunk into the bevel to better penetrate my lover.
"Needle synesthete", I thought, front-back-front, back and forth of the needle in that breast fucked to metal, and those beautiful lips no longer laughing but crying out imploring me, the crouching woman with silver cocks, telling him that nothing can be more intimate than this, this crossing of the body without anesthesia, this fusion of flesh and metal.
Drops of blood rolled down Egon's torso, a magnificent tableau of Christ in candlelight.

- When I say "needles", what do you have in mind? she asked again.
I blurted out:
- Cock!
She looked taken aback.
- Cock? Really? I wasn't expecting that answer!
Yet it's the only one that makes full sense to me. One person's eroticism is sometimes like common sense, the good least shared by others.

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Madame Lule, may not be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.