The Sounds of Silence
Sunday afternoon, and there is nothing pressing. Nothing urgent. Six solid hours of daylight left before the Sunday night angst of Monday morning sets in. I am lazing in bed with the boy and toying with my birthday present, a lovely set of eight rosebud urethral sounds. Polished, shiny. He knows I love shiny things. Especially evil shiny things, like scalpels, straight razors and now, urethral sounds.
My birthday is not officially here for four days. He knows I can never wait until then to see what he has found for me. His taste is exquisite in every single aspect.
I pick up each long, slender rod between my fingertips and watch the sun glint off of the new metal. Each rod has an increasingly larger ‘bullet’ on the business end, originally designed to clear obstructions from the male urethra but it did not take long before the kinksters of the world found much more fun ways to press them into service, so to speak. I have wanted a set for a year.
Turning them over in my hands, I pretend as though the conversation the boy and I are engaged in is at the front of my mind. I shake each to test the bonelessness of each shaft, waving it and watching the slim metal rod flex and create bright paths of glitter in the sunlight.
The boy watches me idly, laughing and talking of some recent misadventure at work. He does not seem nervous.
But then again, he is a masochist. And a beautiful one at that.
I tip him over onto his back and tell him to lie still for a moment. He blinks at the sudden movement and chuckles softly.
“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to decide to use those instead of just teasing me by playing with them.”
I laugh and reach into the nightstand for alcohol and gauze. He watches silently while I arrange the cool metal rods according to size on his broad chest. The smallest is nearest me, and I pick it up and clean it thoroughly, my fingertips brushing over old scars on his skin. Scars that I had put there. He grows from piano to forte in the space of eight heartbeats. The air in our bedroom became suddenly heavy with promise.
My big brother was a pharmacist. He died on Christmas Eve day 2004 of lymphoma. I often find myself thinking of things he told me at the oddest times. This was one of those times. I remembered his recounting an event many years ago while in college going through one of his endless clinical classes. He told me that when he looked through the end of the microscope and dialed that tiny world into his focus, that he was always and without exception excited at the anticipation of what he might discover, what might be revealed to him through the eyepiece. And how that revelation might change him.
I felt that way right at this moment. Shaking off the frisson of brief discord that came from thinking of my brother while holding my husband’s cock, I blinked and drew in a deep breath. Exhaling softly, I smiled down into the boy’s face and generously lubricated the smallest sound. He closed his eyes. I made him open them. I want his feedback, physically and emotionally. I always do when I play with his pain, especially for the first time with a new toy.
I eased the bulbous and greasy tip of the smallest sound into his urethra. His eyes held mine. I raised one eyebrow in a silent question. He sighed softly in response as the silvery bullet entered his body. I could feel him wanting to prove something to himself, to me. A sense of urgency came over him after several minutes of my ministrations. Not the urge to climax, but rather the urge for me to not be so gentle, to be so patient. He didn’t wish me to spend so much time easing him into the experience. He was greedy for the pain. He wanted to take the larger sounds in closer succession. I would happily have made him scream just for the sheer joy that it brings to me. Ah, but no.
This is always the crux, the deciding point for me. To crush, to wound..or not. To push the edgeplay past the point of sanity for a moment, or to retreat to safer ground. Just because something is offered, and it is something I desire does not necessarily mean I should accept it. Not this afternoon, anyway.
Besides, I rather enjoy seeing his need. I guess it is the sadist in me.
