It’s Not Just For Work And It Isn’t For Play [H/W - NC-17]
Another snippet/miniature from the kink meme. The prompt was needle play.
Warning: Contains relatively graphic medical play.
He slips the needle under my skin gently, hesitant as always to leave his own mark amongst the many dark heirlooms that follow the path of my Cephalic vein. I tell him frequently that he needn’t bother, but my darling boy is inured to my famed powers of persuasion and so each and every ministration necessitates delicate preparation and a whispered warning.
It will only hurt for a moment, my love.
Of course, he is sorely mistaken.
There is no pain, there never has been. The cold pinch of steel and the rush of the drug - any drug at all - through my veins is the nearest to ecstasy that I have ever come. The contrast of my blood as it is drawn up through the milky solution is unforgettable and shockingly erotic to me; reminiscent of dark hands on pale skin, livid bruises, and open wounds.
It has been too long since I could escape his watchful attention long enough to indulge my desires, and I can feel my traitorous body reacting to the sweet rush of the morphine like a lover’s caress.
Watson is in no way an inattentive or naïve lover, but he is first a foremost a medical man and so the tell-tale flush and laboured breathing that betray my arousal are, of course, misinterpreted. He lays a cool professional hand over my carotid pulse but when I moan he drops his watch with a startled gasp and recognition begins to dawn in his wide, blue eyes.
His exhaled breath hangs between us for long moments and it is beyond even my considerable power to deduce what path he will set his feet upon. He considers me with those eyes, now a bare ring of twilight sky around pupils blown wide with shock and, if I don’t miss my guess, lust. Without dropping his gaze he reaches again for his bag and when he withdraws a second syringe my heart stutters despite the dreamy suppression of the poppy.
My arm still rests on the counterpane beside his hip and he draws it into his lap. He releases the tourniquet and the frisson of returning circulation is almost unbearable; my own hips move helplessly against the sheet that covers me, seeking already to make an end of this sudden, desperate desire. When I moan again my split lip reopens and I taste blood.
Please, I mean to say, touch me, please, but all that comes out is John. He smiles calmly, and does not touch me but the cool sting of alcohol over my newest needle wound works to restore my control.
I hold my breath as he presses a new, empty needle to my skin; not into the vein or muscle but through my flesh like a stitch. A shining scarlet thread winds over my pale skin, and with or without his touch my climax is not far away.
With the easy knowledge of one so intimately acquainted with my body, he reaches with his free hand beneath the sheet and firmly grips the base of my cock. My pleasure recedes, and I take a deep, long-denied breath. After a minute or two he releases me, some element of my expression having guaranteed to him my continued acquiescence.
The next needle is the curved one he uses for stitching. He pushes it unflinchingly through the spare meat of my upper thigh and we watch together as his bloody knuckles brush the weeping head of my member, leaving a dark smear. With a choked growl he drops the needle into the waiting dish.
His hand slides easily over my slick flesh, spreading viscous fluid and blood over my shaft. At the first tight twist of his fingers he lowers his head to my arm and licks at the neat twin puncture wounds just below my elbow. The stinging heat of his mouth and the sight of blood on his lips wring a strangled curse from me and with one final keening cry I am spilling over his hand.
As the drug finally takes me, I am vaguely aware of the snap of Watson’s suspenders and of his shifting weight as he unbuttons his trousers. His pleasure is quick and silent, the distant flare of pain when his fingernails score my wrist the only signal of his release.
The last thing I see before my eyes drift close is his hands, covered by a cooling delta of blood and our mingled seed.
Warning: Contains relatively graphic medical play.
He slips the needle under my skin gently, hesitant as always to leave his own mark amongst the many dark heirlooms that follow the path of my Cephalic vein. I tell him frequently that he needn’t bother, but my darling boy is inured to my famed powers of persuasion and so each and every ministration necessitates delicate preparation and a whispered warning.
It will only hurt for a moment, my love.
Of course, he is sorely mistaken.
There is no pain, there never has been. The cold pinch of steel and the rush of the drug - any drug at all - through my veins is the nearest to ecstasy that I have ever come. The contrast of my blood as it is drawn up through the milky solution is unforgettable and shockingly erotic to me; reminiscent of dark hands on pale skin, livid bruises, and open wounds.
It has been too long since I could escape his watchful attention long enough to indulge my desires, and I can feel my traitorous body reacting to the sweet rush of the morphine like a lover’s caress.
Watson is in no way an inattentive or naïve lover, but he is first a foremost a medical man and so the tell-tale flush and laboured breathing that betray my arousal are, of course, misinterpreted. He lays a cool professional hand over my carotid pulse but when I moan he drops his watch with a startled gasp and recognition begins to dawn in his wide, blue eyes.
His exhaled breath hangs between us for long moments and it is beyond even my considerable power to deduce what path he will set his feet upon. He considers me with those eyes, now a bare ring of twilight sky around pupils blown wide with shock and, if I don’t miss my guess, lust. Without dropping his gaze he reaches again for his bag and when he withdraws a second syringe my heart stutters despite the dreamy suppression of the poppy.
My arm still rests on the counterpane beside his hip and he draws it into his lap. He releases the tourniquet and the frisson of returning circulation is almost unbearable; my own hips move helplessly against the sheet that covers me, seeking already to make an end of this sudden, desperate desire. When I moan again my split lip reopens and I taste blood.
Please, I mean to say, touch me, please, but all that comes out is John. He smiles calmly, and does not touch me but the cool sting of alcohol over my newest needle wound works to restore my control.
I hold my breath as he presses a new, empty needle to my skin; not into the vein or muscle but through my flesh like a stitch. A shining scarlet thread winds over my pale skin, and with or without his touch my climax is not far away.
With the easy knowledge of one so intimately acquainted with my body, he reaches with his free hand beneath the sheet and firmly grips the base of my cock. My pleasure recedes, and I take a deep, long-denied breath. After a minute or two he releases me, some element of my expression having guaranteed to him my continued acquiescence.
The next needle is the curved one he uses for stitching. He pushes it unflinchingly through the spare meat of my upper thigh and we watch together as his bloody knuckles brush the weeping head of my member, leaving a dark smear. With a choked growl he drops the needle into the waiting dish.
His hand slides easily over my slick flesh, spreading viscous fluid and blood over my shaft. At the first tight twist of his fingers he lowers his head to my arm and licks at the neat twin puncture wounds just below my elbow. The stinging heat of his mouth and the sight of blood on his lips wring a strangled curse from me and with one final keening cry I am spilling over his hand.
As the drug finally takes me, I am vaguely aware of the snap of Watson’s suspenders and of his shifting weight as he unbuttons his trousers. His pleasure is quick and silent, the distant flare of pain when his fingernails score my wrist the only signal of his release.
The last thing I see before my eyes drift close is his hands, covered by a cooling delta of blood and our mingled seed.