Posted by red on November 10th, 2009 in Erotica, Kink, Lust, Play Piercing

He told me about it long before our date, making it an assured thing that I – an information whore, cherry popping junkie and intense sensation seeker – would be more than game by them time we tangled. “Beestings” he called them. Small injections of sterile water, right below the skin. Apparently, they help with pain management during labour. Or something. I looked them up - “subcutaceous water blocks” is the non-sexy lingo. I prefer beestings.

“Beesting” is a great explanation, but it’s not the half of it. It’s like a long, continuous flesh destroying venom coursing into your skin. Like the worst moment of a wasp-sting, drawn out over what could easily be an eternity. Like fire mixed with nettles mixed with salt in your wounds. Pure agony – not delicious at all. Not the kind of agony can be channeled into joy, not the kind that brings tears of release - just the kind that is overwhelming. I have had saline injections before; this was worse. More burning. More pain. More agony. More screams.

But then, its done. After the injection - after the agony - the most fascinating thing happens. The fire diminishes; the searing dissipates, and in its place comes the throbbing. Deep, bursting, ever present throbs. Like a big brass drum beneath your skin. Ebbing hard. Throbbing mercilessly. The focus is intense – and every other sensation in the body suddenly goes to that one spot. Any pain, any attention, any joy, any fear. Channeled to one place, processing slowly with each throb. Agony dispersing, pain becoming tolerable. Focus becoming absolute.

It kind of fucked with my head. Each subsequent sting took away the agony and the throbbing of the ones before. The focus was only ever on one spot, jumping to the newest sting with absolute transference of sensation. I found myself wondering what was wrong with my nerves – why they were so easily fooled into forgetting the intense agonies that had come in the past in the face of a fresh sting. Jump…fiery agony…throb…jump again. Such a simple, innocent process – truly – and so much of my focus and feelings hijacked at the whims of the next sting. And then of the next sting. And then the next again.

That power inherent in being able to gather up all of that agony and all of that pain and to focus it into one tiny beesting takes my breath away. The sting is ephemeral, its effect, lasting. It takes sensations and it puts them somewhere understood, somewhere expected, somewhere containable. The beesting is a container for violent angry pain, neutralizing it down to an upset, dull throb. Once contained, the pain can be soothed and loved; respected and appreciated. Focused.

The endorphins come later. Or, perhaps, they’re just not obvious till then. Either way, when the throbbing diminishes and I try and move, my focus is gone - numbed by the natural chemicals buzzing too and fro in my brain. Perhaps something about the sting makes them come on in huge amounts. Perhaps they just release over a long period of time. They’re with me so much longer than expected; coursing through me with every throb. Their grip is weak, however – they are not able to hang on with their gentle touch as I take another sting, their loving caress sucked into the intensity of the agonizing, molten fire localized beneath a small pinprick in my skin.