TRIGGER WARNING

Contains description of intense needle, scalpel, and knife play (see Part 7 for the more detailed warning)

"You're not going to like hearing this. The next easiest spot, due to the looseness and shape of your skin in that area and the relative ease I have in manipulating it, is going to be along the edge of your labia. If I really wanted to cause pain, I'd target a point a little further in, where the tissue is thicker; as it is, the outer edge will definitely hurt, but not as much, and not as much as other parts of the body. I think I'll target just two points, on either side. I promise to not turn you into a pincushion."

He's right. I don't like the sound of this. I feel my stomach start to tie itself in knots.

"And again, I am very sorry, but this will hurt. I think it would be best from now on if you had something to bite down on." He casts his gaze about, then starts rooting in one of the counter drawers. "Here. Wooden stirring spoon. It's smooth enough that it shouldn't give you splinters."

He puts the handle against my mouth; I bite down.

"Move forward a little, so that you are just a little closer to the edge of the chair, please."

I comply.

"There. Stop. That's a good place. All right," he says with a sigh, "brace yourself. You don't need to watch if you can't force yourself to do it, although I do recommend you watch me work if you are able. You might want to count each needle as it goes in, to remind yourself that this won't go on forever. There will be four."

Counting would involve acknowledging the needles as they enter me. No, please no.

He was right. This hurts. I bite down and whimper, but I somehow manage to avoid flinching. Eventually, tears start flowing out of me in a soft, steady torrent.

He rests his hand gently on the top of my thigh. "You aren't moving from this position until the needles come out. Open your eyes and look down."

I look, and instantly regret it.

He's pinned me to the chair by my labia.

"I hope you are as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. None of what I do next will be painless, and I apologize, because I know this isn't the sort of pain you usually welcome." He reaches up and strokes my cheek. "If it's any consolation, from here on I can hold you or lean you against me for support for most of what I do, even when I'm putting needles into you."

"Yes, please," I sob. The spoon falls out of my mouth, clattering to the floor.

"There, now. I have you. I won't let you go. It's all right." He drinks in more of my tears with kisses. "You're dealing with this very well, you know."

"I am?" I manage a half-laugh. "I think I'm a wreck."

"You're doing better than you think you are. I've seen people break down much more dramatically from playing with sharps, and none of them had your extreme fear of needles. Phobias are serious things. Working with them requires bravery, especially if you face your phobia head-on without any prior desensitization. I might also point out that up until now, you've been holding yourself in place of your own volition. That takes an incredible amount of willpower, especially when you are terrified. Most of the other people I've subjected to this, or seen subjected to it, were well restrained; and that was simply to immobilize them while they were enduring something painful. None of them had phobias of needles, or of any other sharp things - although most of them were a little nervous, which was to be expected." His hand strokes my hair as he continues kissing me, and eventually, my need to weep subsides. I sag into his arms, exhausted.

And that hurts.

"Magister. Could you please add more restraints? Please? I'm afraid of slipping down the chair."

"Yes, of course. Let me get the clothesline." He goes back to the counter, opens another drawer, and pulls out some cotton rope.

There is just enough to wrap around my midriff a few times, under the armpits, so that I am propped up on the chair. He also rolls a towel and places it behind the small of my back. While I still need to use my feet to push my weight back to avoid putting any kind of pressure on the pins affixing my painfully throbbing genitals to the chair, at least now I have a safety line. I pretend that the rope is a part of him. That way he is always holding me, never letting me go.

"Perhaps you will like what I'm about to do next," he muses, "since it doesn't involve needles."

This ought to be a relief to me, but somehow, it's not.

"You will have noticed that I left your arms free. Do you remember my lessons on nerve endings and meridians? So far, I have limited myself to stimulating them by stroking, or, if the sensation I want to produce is pain, pressing down on pressure points. Now, I think it's time to use some sharper tools. I'll start with a scalpel." He pulls one of the foil-wrapped packages off the baking sheet and opens it. "As you can see, this scalpel has a single-bladed edge, and a sharp point. The edge and point can both be used on nerve paths. The point can also be pressed into meridians, either with or without drawing blood."

He lifts my right arm, holds it against him, and starts stroking me gently with the blade. Down my shoulder, along the inside of my arm, down to just past my wrists. He repeats the process on the other arm.

At first, it tickles, because the touch is so light and delicate, but after a while, the tickling starts to feel like burning. I don't feel anything trickling down, so I don't think I'm bleeding, but it's hard to say whether I'm being stroked or being cut. I glance at my arm to make sure. No blood. He's not cutting.

"I'm pressing very lightly, and holding the blade at such an angle that it won't cut your skin, so you aren't bleeding. The burning sensation is just your ch'i awakening," he says. "I'm bringing it to the surface. As was the case after your initiation ceremony, there will be lines. They won't be permanent, though."

If he pushes the blade harder, there will be cuts. He doesn't need to say that part out loud. Try not to shudder. Try...

But he stops, then flips the blade over, so that it is upside down, and places the point on my arm.

"I use the point to stroke if all I intend to do is produce strong sensation. Even though disposable dental scalpels like the one I've been using aren't the sharpest tools available, it's a bad idea to push down hard using the blade itself, especially if you're near veins, arteries, or nerve endings. It's also a bad idea to use the point directly on top of veins, arteries, tendons, or the like. That could cause serious damage. It's best to stick to what only shows as flesh. Your unhealthy thinness is very fortunate, here, because it lets me see what areas I need to avoid."

The tip engraves itself into my skin, just hard enough to mark, just light enough to not cut. Lines swirling up and down my arms, lines curling across my chest. I bite down on my spoon.

"Now, this is interesting. Notice what happens when I use the sharp tip of the scalpel to stroke the kidney meridians along your legs. They run from your foot to your chest. I won't be applying the sharp tip to your feet, though - I don't want to risk tickling you, given the method I've used to pin you down." Holding one of my legs gently, he crouches down on his haunches so that he can reach my ankle better.

The tip scrapes up my left leg.

Pain.

Fire.

Need. A terrible, consuming, desperate need that makes my genitals throb - quite separate from the painful throbbing there that's never gone away. The wood I am pinned to feels slick; it would be a pleasant surface to rub myself against. But I can't twitch my hips or grind in place without ripping myself free of the needles that pin me down. I groan.

"And that is another use of the blade," he says. "And to think I haven't even cut you with it. Yet."