The Path of Pain

"I must be crazy," Elise thought fleetingly as she jabbed the needle into her left breast, two inches below the nipple.

It hurt, but not as badly as the needle already buried in her right breast. That one was still stinging, sending a thrill through her that left her gasping. She had hoped that the one in her left breast would balance the pain. Pulling her breast up by the nipple, she withdrew the needle, blessed it in the smoke of the incense, and then stabbed again. This time, she hit the nerve she hoped for, and her body tensed as the pain whipped through her. Her body sagged and her eyes closed tightly, forcing out a tear that trickled down her cheek. The pain passed, and she opened her eyes and beheld her reflection in the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

She was kneeling on a sheepskin rug on the floor front of the mirror. The incense burner was between her and the mirror, sending its plume of sweet smoke upward. She was totally naked. She saw the needles protruding from her breasts, and also the pair that she had stuck through the outer lips of her bare vulva. Four needles in all. Eleven to go.

Those eleven identical needles were resting on a length of sterile gauze, lined up in a neat row next to her, just removed from their sterile packaging. Each one was two inches long and very thick, with a green plastic base. She had unsheathed them after she had disinfected the skin they would pierce with alcohol wipes. She always liked that part, feeling the cooling alcohol on her vulva and her breasts.

The image in the mirror was a woman of thirty, her hair long and blonde, her lips full and inviting, her figure trim and thin to the point where her breasts, although of normal size, seemed a shade too large for her frame. They had begun to sag a little; about a year ago, she failed the pencil test, but felt no regret about that. The nipples and areolas were a dark pink. Her cunt was bald and wet. If a man had seen her as she knelt there, he would have been aroused at the sight of her nude body. His penis would have swelled and hardened. He would have dreamed of slipping that penis into the cleft of her cunt as he played with those soft breasts, of pumping his semen into her womb. Such thoughts did not arouse her, though. Nothing aroused her but the needles.

She had tried to climax with men. And with women, too. The feeling of a penis or a finger gliding into her was pleasurable, but not arousing. Nothing helped. Nothing stirred her to orgasm but pain.

Over the years, she had perfected the ritual that would bring her to what she hoped would be a shattering climax. Tonight, she would perform it without deviation. First, she would strip naked and shower, shaving off her pubic hair to expose the soft folds of her labia. Then she would place the sheepskin in front of the mirror, and line up the fifteen needles in their packages next to it on the left, and the box of alcohol wipes on the right. She would turn the lights down low, light a dozen large candles, and place them in a circle around her. Next she'd light a large cone of incense to perfume the air and sanctify the instruments of her torture. Then a glass of wine and a few tokes off a joint.

When the effects of the wine and the pot seeped over her, she would dangle her breasts over the burning incense to perfume them, letting them swing in the smoke. Then she would put the incense burner on the floor in front of the mirror and squat over it, parting the lips so that her pussy would be similarly perfumed. In this way, she would consecrate the female parts of her body to the ritual she performed.

She was not a believer in any gods but the gods of her private pain, but her strict Catholic upbringing, with its memories of priests swinging the censers as they proceeded down the aisles of the church, suggested that these new gods of hers might appreciate the gesture as well. Her childhood church had been filled with images of tortured people -- Jesus being flogged by Pilate's soldiers, Saint Sebastian with blood streaming from a hundred arrow wounds, and the large cross over the altar, showing a life-size Jesus with blood flowing from his hands and feet and side in loving detail. The nuns had taught her that in the Middle Ages, pious people whipped themselves to ecstasy in the firm belief that God approved of pain, particularly when it was self-administered. At the time, she thought that was strange. Not now.

In college, she took a course in medieval art and came across a picture of a woman being martyred. The woman's face was transfigured into a mask of ecstatic agony as her breasts, seized by red-hot tongs and stretched out from her chest, were being sliced away by a swordsman. It was when she saw that image that she recalled the lessons of her childhood and felt the stirrings of wetness between her legs and a tightening of her brassiere, as if her own breasts were swelling in response to the prospect of pain. She closed the book quickly and thrust it away, but the image stayed with her, and for days she could think of nothing else. That was ten years ago. But it was that picture that would shortly guide her down the path of pain. Now nothing remained of that Catholic schoolgirl but the incense, the love of ritual, and the sanctifying pain.

She re-experienced that sensation of sexual frisson as she started the ritual that evening. She knelt on the sheepskin rug and lifted a breast to her nose, inhaling the pungent scent of the incense on her turgid nipple. Her pussy was already wet with anticipation. She squeezed her clitoral hood, feeling the bud underneath it begin to engorge. "Be ready, my darling pearl," she prayed to it. "If I'm strong enough tonight, you will have your moment."

Then she opened the box of wipes and cleaned her left breast slowly and carefully, taking special care with the nipple. She repeated the process with her right breast. The evaporating alcohol cooled her teats, stiffening them. She smiled and pinched them. Then she disinfected her vulva with the same care, taking extra time with her clitoris, which responded to the coolness of the alcohol the way her nipples did. She pushed it back and forth, feeling it swell and harden. She pinched it hard, and felt a twinge of pain, and smiled. My darling pearl is very sensitive tonight, she thought. Tonight will be a good night.

Then she unwrapped the needles, one by one, and laid them on the sterile gauze she had unrolled for the purpose. And then she was ready.

She picked up the first needle with her left hand and passed it through the smoke of the incense, consecrating it. With her right hand, she pulled on one of her outer cunt lips until it stretched about an inch. And then she stabbed.

As the needle pierced her labia, her eyes widened and she gasped. Her world shrank, focused on the pain in her cunt lip, forcing thoughts away of everything else. It was always like this. The pain itself was not very great, but she knew that it heralded excruciating pains yet to come, a promise of agonies yet to be savored. She shivered at the thought. As the needle pierced the delicate skin and protruded through the outside layer, it brought with it a drop of blood. That was good, she thought. The gods would approve. They liked blood.

She took another needle and pierced her other cunt lip the same way. This one's pain was different. Not as sharp and quick-lived, but duller and lasting longer. It throbbed with her heartbeat. She was reminded once again of the many ways that pain could manifest itself. That was always part of the ritual's charm, that it could be counted on to surprise her. Would tonight bring her the ultimate pain she was seeking, the pain that would overwhelm her and transport her to bliss? It had often done that before, but it was never a sure thing.

She knelt there for a moment, regarding her image in the mirror with satisfaction. The two needles were perfectly symmetrical, their points glinting in the candlelight. The only difference was the single drop of blood at the point of the first needle's exit.

"Now for my tits," she said in a low voice. She grasped her right nipple and lifted her breast with it, pulling the underside of it into view. This is going to hurt, she thought. It always did. She bit her lip, picked up a needle, consecrated it with the incense, and used its two-inch length to carefully mark off that distance from the base of the nipple to the spot below it, a spot that she knew was extraordinarily sensitive to pain. She situated the point of the needle at that spot. She took a deep breath, and then plunged the needle into her breast until its full length was buried in her flesh.

The pain was electrifying. It shot through her breast from its base right up to her nipple. She cried out loud and let go of the nipple; the breast flopped down and bounced slightly, with each wave setting off a new twinge of pain. A droplet of red welled up at the base of the needle as her blood filled the hollow needle. It dropped off the needle and splashed onto her leg. Another followed it, and then the flow stopped.

She paused then, breathing heavily, regaining her composure. She'd been startled by the intensity of the pain this time. Were her breasts more sensitive than usual? Perhaps it was because of her period, which would start in the next day or two. If she continued with the ritual, would the pain be too great to endure? The thought of calling it off flickered through her mind. "I must be crazy," she thought. "Surely this couldn't be good for me."

But somehow her left hand reached for another needle as if it had a will of its own. She picked up the needle and passed it through the smoke. Her right fingers grasped her left nipple and pulled it upward. Then the needle went slowly into the breast. The pain wasn't as great this time; somehow, she had missed most of the nerves.

That won't do, she thought. So she withdrew the needle, consecrated it again, and re-inserted it a millimeter away from its first spot. That did the trick. The pain seemed to practically bounce off her ribs, back into the nipple, again and again. Again, a drop of blood flowed into the needle and dripped onto her leg.

Four needles in all. Eleven to go.

The next six needles went into her breasts as well, so that each nipple had four needles spaced equally apart around it, each needle buried to its base and oozing blood. She took her time, holding each one in the smoke for the proper amount of time and savoring the pain of each one as it pierced her breast. She knew from experience that the pain wouldn't be as great, since only the area below the nipple seemed to be more sensitive than the rest of her tit's soft flesh. Maybe she would coat the needles with salt next time, to increase the sting. But would that make them less sterile? She didn't know. She'd have to research that.

And then it was time for the nipples themselves. They were stiff and waiting. She lifted her left breast and positioned the consecrated needle right at the tip of her nipple. She didn't look at the needle directly. Instead, she made eye contact with her image in the mirror. She loved to see how her face contorted as the pain of her pierced nipple coursed through her body. She stabbed her nipple with the needle and pushed its entire length slowly into her breast, down to the green plastic base. Down it plunged, through the sensitive milk ducts, almost to the rib.

She did not disappoint herself. The pain transfigured her face into a thing of beauty, her skin suddenly pale, her eyes wide and pleading, the muscles around her mouth tightening, her chin trembling, tears coursing down her cheeks. It recalled that image of the martyr with the sliced breast, now transplanted to her own face. She dropped her breast as the beginning of an orgasm built inside her. Not yet, she thought. Not yet. She lifted her right breast and reached for another needle. Her hand shook as the passed the needle through the smoke.

This time she failed herself. Instead of maintaining eye contact with the image in the mirror, as the ritual demanded, her gaze darted to the reflected image of her nipple as it was pierced, watching the needle as it disappeared into her stiff nipple. No good, she thought. The gods wouldn't like that. She had to pay the price for her inattention. She withdrew the needle, and a droplet of blood appeared on the nipple's tip, as if in mockery of mother's milk oozing from the teat. She squeezed the nipple, and the blood trickled down the soft slope of her breast, just missing the bottom needle and spreading along the inframammary fold.

She held the needle in the plume of the smoke longer this time, and then held the tip in the flame of a candle as she counted slowly to ten. When she re-inserted the needle, she kept her eyes locked on those of her image in the mirror. This time, the pain was much greater. It took all her willpower not to flinch as the needle sank into her flesh. This time, the blood flowed freely through the needle, ten drops in all. The gods have accepted the offering of blood and pain, she thought. They have forgiven me for my sin, and have rewarded me.

This time, she made no effort to suppress the climax that was sweeping through her body, the climax that was the gift of her cruel gods. She could not refuse it without insulting them. Her body shook with the orgasm, and she watched her breasts, with their ten implanted needles, jiggling and bouncing as she writhed. She loved the way her breasts looked then, especially when they bled profusely.

This orgasm was better than usual. The gods must have been pleased indeed. Its intensity left her trembling. As it receded and she regained something of her composure, she thanked the gods for her pleasure. But the ritual wasn't over yet, she knew. There were three needles left.

The curious thing about a pain-induced orgasm is that usually more pain results in another, stronger climax. But sometimes the additional pain kills the libido entirely. Elise never knew which way it would go. But the remaining three needles had to be used, and the ritual completed; otherwise, the gods would not be pleased, and would nevermore favor her with their gift. And she wanted so much to please them, and be worthy of that ultimate favor!

Her left hand shook as she picked up a needle and consecrated it in the smoke. With he other hand, she stroked her slot, parting the dark pink inner lips, now protruding wetly from her pussy. She grasped the left inner lip, pulled it out, and stabbed it with the needle, piercing the super-sensitive skin entirely and erupting from the other side, streaked with red. She lifted the needle to stretch the skin cruelly, tearing open a hole from which dark blood began to ooze and trickle down her folds.

The pain lanced through her, and she wept freely. Then she seized another needle, blessed it hurriedly in the smoke, and impaled the right inner lip in the same way, again ripping the delicate flesh until the blood flowed freely. Now four needle shafts gleamed from her cunt. The pain swept over her in waves. The wounds stung, their pain heightened by the salt of her sweat as it trickled down her belly onto her cunt lips.

One needle left. It would go into her most intimate and sensitive place. The pain would be intense, more than any pain she had experienced so far. In return, the gods could not fail to reward her.

"Give me strength," she muttered to them. "Give me strength." And, as if in answer to her prayers, a great calm came over her. Her tears stopped and her breathing came slowly and easily. Her body straightened, and she thrust her bony hips forward as she knelt on the sheepskin rug. She pushed back the hood of her clitoris, and it sprang out, erect and ready. She grasped its tip, and pulled, extending the engorged clitoris its full length of almost an inch. And then she picked up the last needle and passed it slowly and devoutly through the smoke.

The anticipation of the pain did what she wanted it to. She felt her skin crawl and her belly flutter with the fear, a trembling that kept building and building. A new blossom of sweat appeared on her belly, her back, and her shoulders. Her shaking hands could barely grasp the tip of her clitoris and hold the needle steady as she ran its sharp point along the side of her clit.

She held her breath and bit her lip. Then she exhaled slowly. Now, she thought.

She stabbed.

She pushed the needle through the width of her engorged clitoris, and out the other side, impaling it and keeping it from retracting into its hood. The agony was excruciating. Every muscle in her body knotted. She tried to scream, but there was no breath in her lungs. And then came the moment she craved, as the pain transmuted itself into pleasure and surged through her, all her endorphins released into her system. She climaxed in a gush of fluid that sprayed from her crotch onto the rug. She gasped like a drowning woman as the wave of the climax built, crashed, and built again, wave after wave after wave. And then she slumped onto the rug as the highest wave swept through her, claimed her, ravaged her, left her senseless. She passed out.

When she awoke, she found herself lying on the sheepskin rug, now stained with new cum and blood. The incense had burned out, but the large candles still flickered. The fifteen needles were still planted in her flesh. She stood up shakily and wobbled to her dresser, retrieving the camera she had put into the top drawer. She went back to the mirror and took pictures of her torso, and then close-ups of her breasts and vulva, with the needles, the impaled clitoris, and the blood showing clearly.

She put the camera down. Then she pulled the needles out, one by one, in the order in which she had inserted them. As she removed each one, she gave it a twist to re-open the wound and squeezed the wound until the blood oozed forth once more, each drop a mute witness to the ordeal she had undergone.

She kissed each needle, licked it off, and sucked out the blood. That was part of the ritual, too. She noticed with satisfaction that the wounds bled more this time than they usually did. Some of the ones on her breasts actually trickled down her abdomen in a thin, sluggish rivulet toward her navel, matching the now-dried blood under her right nipple. More blood was flowing from her labia's reopened wounds, streaking down the inside of her thigh.

She picked up the camera again and took more pictures of herself, proudly displaying the blood streaks: another torso shot, then more close-ups of each breast with their oozing wounds, and then one of her bloodstained cunt. Tomorrow she would post these pictures on a torture-themed web site for others to enjoy. She didn't particularly care if the pictures aroused them, but she took a quiet pride in proving to them how capable she was of inflicting such misery on herself.

Then she lay down on the bed with a tube of antiseptic cream and masturbated, rubbing the cream onto the wounded and still sensitive flesh of her breasts and cunt. The white cream became pink as it mixed with the blood of her wounds, and stung slightly, each sting like a gentle kiss on her tortured flesh. This time her climax was soft and warm, as her body forgave her for its recent injuries. She drifted off to sleep.

"Something must be wrong with me," a small rational voice in her head murmured to her as she dozed off. "Maybe I should see a shrink about this, before I do real damage to myself." But she knew she wouldn't. And she knew that next Saturday night, she would be kneeling naked before her mirror, her clitoris and nipples swelling with anticipation, and fifteen needles lined up in a neat row at her side, waiting for the sanctifying smoke.