I’m a sadist. I figured I’d just get that out in the open first. Without going too much into the details, it feels extremely cathartic to hurt people. It’s something about being in control, about someone else experiencing pain for my benefit, that just makes me feel very, very happy, like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. Of course, it also just turns me on, but like I said, I don’t want to get too much into the details of that side of things.
I’m not a monster of course. I don’t go around beating people up in bar brawls to get off or anything like that. I’m only interested in acting out my fantasies with willing participants, and I care a lot about consent. I understand that the experience of being hurt can be just as pleasant for some people as hurting them is for me, and in the end I really am wanting all parties involved to be as happy and safe as possible. It’s an unorthodox pastime, sure, but in the end it’s all happening between consenting adults.
Fortunately for me, genetics blessed me with just the right balance of facial symmetry, fat distribution, and skeletal structure to be considered fairly attractive by mainstream standards. You’d be surprised how many people out there want to get the shit beaten out of them by a beautiful woman. As a result of this, I’m reasonably well known in my local BDSM scene, which is one of many reasons why I won’t be disclosing that much information that could be traced back to where I live. It wouldn’t be especially difficult to find me.
Because of my relative popularity, I have gotten a little used to complete strangers knowing who I am. It’s why I wasn’t too surprised when I was approached at a kink party and greeted by name by someone who I’d never seen before in my life. I’ll be the first to admit I was smitten at first sight, she was truly gorgeous. I can’t exactly explain what it was about her that made her so attractive to me, it’s difficult to put into words. I can easily describe her of course; short, red hair in a pixie cut, slender limbs, expertly applied makeup, but this doesn’t really explain the aura of almost divine beauty that emanated out from her. Unlike many of the other attendees of the party, she wasn’t wearing any sort of fetish gear or even particularly revealing clothing. Just jeans, a gray t-shirt, and an unzipped gray hoodie.
While I’m inclined to swing both ways, I’ve always had a certain preference for women, but that predilection towards sapphism doesn’t mean I’m likely to fall head over heels at the first sight of just any pretty girl. She was special, there was something different about her.
She introduced herself as Julia, and then immediately asked me a question which, in retrospect, should have raised more red flags. Speaking in a calm, measured voice, she asked, “I’ve heard you hurt people if they ask you to, is that correct?”
It wasn’t an incorrect thing to say. She was right, and I told her so, but the phrasing of the question should have bothered me more than it did. Nobody phrases things like that in those sorts of spaces, they use jargon, community specific terminology, that sort of thing. Someone might ask something like “You’re the sadist who’s into impact play, yeah?” perhaps, but the phrasing of “you hurt people if they ask you to” is utterly bizarre. Nobody at that party would have said something like that. It’s the sort of question an 80 year old who was just introduced to the concept of BDSM would ask.
It only got weirder from there. After my affirmative response, she nodded her head thoughtfully and told me she would meet me at my home, and asked me when I would be free. I told her I wasn’t doing anything the next day, and she nodded again and said she’d be there at 2 o clock. Then she just walked away. She didn’t even ask me for my address, or a phone number, or anything. The worst part is, at the time, none of this seemed in any way unusual. A complete stranger had just told me she was going to come to my home the next day, which she evidently already knew the location of, and it felt completely natural. I can chalk up some of it to a bit of giddy excitement at the prospect of indulging in my more unusual interests with a willing and beautiful participant, but that just doesn’t explain it. I’m not an idiot, I know you can’t just trust complete strangers because they’re attractive. It’s like the part of my brain that should have been warning me something was wrong had been completely turned off.
The remainder of the party went as expected, though I was somewhat distracted from my encounter. I didn’t see Julia at all for the rest of the evening. I imagine she just left after informing me she was going to come to my house the next day. I left early and went home giddy with excitement for the day to come.
At the time, part of me was worried she wouldn’t show up. It’s funny, looking back on it now, that the thought of Julia not showing would have been a source of fear rather than relief. But she did, of course. The knocks on my door were perfectly in sync with the alarm I had set up on my phone to remind me of her impending arrival.
I opened the door as casually as possible, trying my best to hide my excitement, and found Julia standing there, smiling pleasantly. She didn’t seem to have changed her outfit at all since the night before, either that or she simply had multiple sets of the same clothes like Einstein. To be honest I was a little embarrassed, part of me worried I had misread her intentions entirely, and that this was meant purely as a social call.
I showed her inside politely and asked if she wanted anything to drink, and she gently declined the offer, looking around my house methodically like the camera of a Mars rover surveying an alien environment. There was a bit of awkward silence that I attempted to fill with one-sided small talk whilst she wandered about the house, seeming to scan every nook and cranny. I followed behind, feeling increasingly awkward. Finally, she turned to look at me and spoke simply, “You will pierce my skin with needles.”
I’ll admit I’d never been especially fond of needle play. It had always seemed too gentle, too tame for my specific proclivities, but that’s not to say I was inexperienced with it, and I was only too eager to indulge Julia if that was what she wanted. In the end, pain is pain after all.
Now of course, I gave my whole spiel about safety and consent, talking about the whole “traffic light” system, soft limits versus hard limits, etc. Julia nodded along, still smiling pleasantly, maintaining eye contact somewhat uncomfortably throughout my entire monologue. It was only when I got to the concept of safe words and asked what would work for her when she opened her mouth.
“There will be no safe word,” she said.
Now I’m familiar with newbies to this sort of thing who get cocky and insist that they can take it, that they don’t have any limits, but this felt different. This wasn’t a statement of confidence, this wasn’t bragging, Hell, this wasn’t even someone with self-worth issues who thinks that getting hurt beyond their limits is what they deserve. This was a statement of fact. There would be no safe word. I wouldn’t need one.
I wanted to argue of course. I wouldn’t be a safe sexual partner if I just did away with important safety techniques because someone told me they weren’t necessary, but my words just seemed to die on my lips as I looked at her unsettlingly calm smile. This was around when I started to fully realize something was wrong, but it was as if I couldn’t do anything about it. The stage was set, and there was no changing the role I was about to play in the proceedings. Torturer, enter stage right.
She lay face down on the couch, removing her hoodie and shirt to reveal a completely unblemished back, skin smooth and pale as cream. Despite my growing anxiety, I was still, at this point, somewhat excited.
In case you aren’t familiar with the subject, needle play is exactly what it sounds like; it’s essentially a somewhat sexier version of acupuncture. I have a set of acupuncture needles with jeweled tips at the blunt end for this purpose, a gift from a friend of mine. I removed the needles from their case, making sure to clean them with an alcohol soaked cloth before setting them on a sterile tray for further use. Once I had prepared all of the needles, I began to gently pierce them one by one into the flesh of Julia’s back, arranging them into a symmetrical pattern.
You don’t go deep during needle play, as with all properly done BDSM the end goal isn’t to seriously injure one’s partner, but to explore different sensory experiences. When done correctly, one doesn’t even leave much in the way of marks or bruising. Ultimately you’re far more likely to receive a scar from an upset house cat from someone who has the proper experience with needle play.
Now, usually folks tend to have a fairly noticeable reaction to being pierced with dozens of needles, even if said needles are only inserted gently and to a shallow depth. While it’s certainly not the most painful form of sadomasochism I’ve indulged in, it’s far from mild. There is usually a hitching of the breath, a faint shudder, even moaning if one gets really into it. Julia, however, remained totally motionless, and the steady rhythm of her breathing continued uninterrupted.
I’ll be entirely honest, I was a little concerned that I was doing a bad job. The whole joy of sadism, to me anyway, is to see the reaction someone gets from what I do to them, to know that they are feeling these sensations because of me. It makes me feel powerful, in control. To receive no response whatsoever was, frankly, a little embarrassing.
I’d finished inserting the last of the needles when Julia finally spoke.
“Push them all the way.”
I shouldn’t have to tell you that’s not how this works. These weren’t short needles, they were several inches long each. Pushing each one down to the base wouldn’t just be agonizing, it would be incredibly dangerous as well; I could easily perforate her lungs at a minimum.
And yet, I found my hands moving to the last needle I had pierced her with. I felt myself grasp the jeweled head and begin gently pressing downwards, slowly burying the entire length of the needle into the flesh of her back.
It’s surreal, not having control over one’s own body, to experience taking actions which you do not want to perform. It’s not like watching a movie, you can feel yourself doing it the entire time, all the while you’re filled with a dawning horror that you’re nothing more than a puppet on a string. To feel your own body betray you is the most viscerally upsetting sensation I’ve ever had.
One by one, each of the needles were pushed to the base into Julia’s back by my trembling, sweaty fingers. I’d like to say there was no blood, that it was as though I were simply pressing sticks into wet clay, but that would be too kind to me, wouldn’t it? No, I had to watch as deep rivulets of crimson bubbled up from the dozens of puncture wounds I was inflicting upon my still seemingly uncaring victim. She didn’t so much as twitch, just continuing to breath methodically even as I saw bubbles of air form in the blood pouring from those wounds which pierced her lungs. My mind was attempting to retreat into itself, horrified at the loss of control I was experiencing, overwhelmed by the total absence of agency. My face was streaked with tears, ruining the makeup I had put on in the hopes of impressing her. God, to think I once worried about how she would think of me. It took me a moment to notice when she got up from the couch, putting back on her shirt, blood soaking through the fabric.
“Thank you for a very pleasant afternoon. I will be stopping by next week on the same day, at the same time. You will meet me then,” she said, sliding her hoodie over the stained t-shirt. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded stack of hundred dollar bills, placing it on the coffee table while I sobbed. With that, she left and walked out the door.
Somehow, by the time I managed to pull myself together, I still had the wherewithal to feel self-conscious about the money. I don’t do this sort of thing for pay, I’ve never wanted to do sex work. It isn’t that I have any sort of moral qualms with that, but this sort of thing is basically a hobby for me, one that admittedly is a rather an important part of my life, but it’s not my job. Being paid for it felt deeply wrong to me. It made me feel dirty, accepting that money, but it was more than enough to keep me financially stable for a week, and there was no way I was going to be able to go to my day job any time soon after what I’d experienced. I called in sick as soon as I was able to speak without crying.
I spent a while processing what happened. It wasn’t just traumatic because of the lack of control, though that certainly doesn’t help. I’ve often been self-conscious about my proclivities, worried that I’m somehow predatory, that I’m a bad person. Something that helps is knowing that what I’m doing isn’t really that dangerous, that it’s just a bit of unusual fun. Even at my most vicious the only lasting damage are a few bruises. To watch someone have needles pierced into their vital organs by my own hands, it’s different. It’s not just harmless fun anymore.
I came up with all sorts of explanations for what could have happened. Maybe Julia was a master hypnotist, and she had put me into some sort of trance. She could have replaced my regular needles with telescoping ones, like those prop knives they use in theater. Perhaps she was wearing some sort of prosthetic makeup on her back filled with fake blood. Maybe she drugged me. In my heart of hearts though, I knew that none of these rationalizations held any truth.
A week came and went, and I found myself waiting at my home for Julia. I didn’t want to, I tried to call up a friend to stay with, but my vocal cords froze up whenever I attempted to ask them. I tried placing a reservation for a hotel room online, but my fingers refused to let me click the mouse. Even when I tried leaving on foot, I found myself steadily walking back to my house as soon as the clock struck noon. My appointment with Julia would be kept.
When she arrived, Julia was still wearing the same outfit as the last week, albeit cleaned of blood. She held a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine in her left hand. She greeted me by name cheerfully enough, and despite the terror I felt at the sight of her, I found my mouth twisting into an involuntary smile as I welcomed her into my home with a tone of similar warmth. Only the tears flowing down my face indicated my true feelings. My mind kept playing back images of me pushing the needles into her back, of the blood bubbling with the rhythm of her breathing.
She got right to the point, informing me that today I would be whipping her. Even now, I’m still not used to the way she phrases her instructions. When you use the proper terminology for these sorts of things, you’re reminding yourself that it’s not actually harmful, that it’s just, in essence, a game. “Impact play” feels so much less cruel than whipping. But Julia doesn’t care about what I feel. She just makes me hurt her.
I went to go retrieve one of the various floggers I owned, deciding I would choose whichever one I thought would cause the least damage, when Julia simply said, “Stop.”
Instantly I froze in my tracks, not moving a muscle. I heard the rustling of paper from behind me, the sound of her unwrapping the object she had brought with her. “Turn around,” she instructed. I did so instantly, without hesitation, despite how strongly I didn’t want to see what she would present me with.
It reminded me somewhat of a discipline, a type of scourge used in certain Christian denominations as an instrument of penance, a tool for the mortification of the flesh. It was composed of seven lengths of slightly rusted chain, with three jagged knots of barbed wire sticking out along each one. She held it out to me, and I took it, shaking slightly. I felt like I was going to be sick. Getting a closer look at the discipline, I could tell that the links of the chain were sharpened to a razor’s edge.
I must again reiterate; I enjoy hurting people. I like seeing people in pain, I like seeing people submit their bodies to me, to watch them be hurt because they willingly give me the power to inflict suffering upon them for my own pleasure. I know there are probably a lot of people out there like me who would be overjoyed to spend time with Julia, to be with a partner who truly has no limits, for whom you can do whatever you want to her and she’ll just take it, wordlessly. They probably wouldn’t even need to be controlled in the way that she does to me, or if they were, they may not even notice it. But I’m not one of those people. I enjoy hurting people, not maiming them.
She took off her shirt again, this time kneeling on the floor instead of laying down. By some terrible miracle, her back showed no scars from our last session. I was once again greeted with that same creamy, unblemished skin. She told me to begin, and I did. I felt my hand clench, white knuckled, around the handle of the discipline, and I began to swing it with all my might against her back. The rusted, razor sharp metal tore into her flesh like a knife through butter, leaving terrible gashes from which blood flowed like the tears of weeping saints. I tried to keep track of how many times my body swung that terrible scourge, but I lost count at one hundred lashes. By the time she told me I could stop, her vertebrae and the back of her rib cage were visible, peeking out from the ruined, bloody flesh of her back.
Like before, impossibly calmly given the utter ruination of her body, she stood up, put back on her clothes, and thanked me for my time, informing me once again that I would be seeing her the same time next week. She left me another stack of hundred dollar bills, more than the last time, and left. I curled in the fetal position upon the blood soaked floor and cried until I passed out.
That was months ago. Since then, it’s only gotten increasingly worse.
I quit my job. I have long since run out of excuses to explain my continued absence, and the money from Julia more than pays for my expenses, so I just sent in a resignation email and didn’t show up for work after that. I wish I could say it was an improvement, not needing to work anymore, but all it means is I have more time to focus on the terrible things I’ve been made to do against my will.
Every week is different, some new torture she wants me to perform on her. Each time she is completely healed from the previous session, and each time her requests seem to get more extreme, further from anything even vaguely resembling something remotely conventional. I don’t want to go into detail as to the specifics, just reliving our first two meetings is traumatic enough, but it has become increasingly rare for me to use any of my own equipment, instead she usually comes in with some new object wrapped in brown paper and string. A potato peeler, a power drill, a nailgun, a branding iron, etc.
Most recently, the package she brought was small, compact. She unwrapped it to reveal a smooth, black, handgun, a Glock I think, with a suppressor already threaded into the end of the barrel. That session was very quick.
Even with the bullet wound clear through her forehead and out the back of her skull, she kept up that polite, gentle smile. I looked through the newly created tunnel of flesh and bone that marred her otherwise beautiful face as she politely thanked me for my hospitality, informing me that she would meet with me again next week at the same time.