I love a good hike, and I’m also a fan of shorts, so stinging nettles hover somewhere close to the top of my ‘irritating nemesis’ list, alongside barbed wire and people who let their dogs off the lead then shout ‘DON’T WORRY, HE’S VERY FRIENDLY’ when the little prick comes bounding towards me all full of teeth. It would never in a million years have occurred to me that stinging nettles could be sexy. But, as with so many topics, incredible guest blogger and queen of unusual kinks Jenby is here to show that actually, stinging nettles can be very fucking sexy indeed…
Venom eulogy – a stinging nettle saga
For as long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated by venom. I used to devour documentaries about it and once spent a year of my life working on a verbatim show about one of my favourite experts in the field after tracking them to a remote venom convention in Bangor.
But my fascination was always tempered by a healthy respect. Growing up in my home island as an intrepid and budding naturalist I was stung by innumerable things, from familiar fare like bees and wasps to the altogether more exotic weever fish, an experience which left me with my foot submerged in a bucket of hot water and vinegar for the remainder of our trip to the beach, and which I only learnt two decades later could easily, at my small size, have killed me.
But probably the most likely culprit to envenomate this young girl with a penchant for poking around bushes was the stinging nettle. I remember the pain being excruciating, the lightest of brushes being enough to ignite an insistent searing and the only cure being the (now very obviously) placeboic effect of rubbing a dock leaf on the site of the sting.
So as you can imagine the first time I saw them used in porn, my eyes were like dinner plates.
One to immediately file under ‘horny, but never in real life’.
Cut to a few years later and, obviously, there’s been something of an escalation in the nature of things I’ll happily(?) have done to me. I’ve been used as an ashtray and had my lips stapled together, both experiences that initially terrified me, but the thought of merely touching a nettle carries the same fear, without even involving hot and/or sharp things going in my mouth (which I need for all manner of things).
Nevertheless, in my neck of the woods, stinging nettles seem to be in vogue. A play partner of mine tells me about having to put their hand in some for a slave task at a recent event, on socials I read a blow-by-blow account from another friend about the tortuous, days-long aftermath of their experience with them and a third friend cheerfully informs me that they’re beating someone with a bunch at an upcoming play munch.
The next thing I know, said friend is decked out in gardening gloves and standing over the naked bodies of me, my girlfriend Star and our play partner Motti, brandishing switches fashioned from freshly picked stingers. Grinning, she begins to stroke our backs, warming us up for the gift we’re about to receive.
The room we’re in has a stable door, which when taken with the gardening gloves and foliage strewn over the floor gives the impression of a barn surrounded by nature, only instead of birdsong the screams and whimpers of fellow subs ring out from neighbouring rooms, and spectators lean over the gate eagerly awaiting the show we’re about to put on.
Based on my previous experiences with nettles, I’m expecting an intolerable, burning pain which will plateau for several hours and then slowly dissipate over the next few days, so I’ve brought a tub of Sudocrem you could use as a murder weapon and am steeling myself for a tough time.
Of course, regular readers will know I love to suffer for my Dommes, and irregular readers will be wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
Our nettle top insists however that she’s a sensualist, not a sadist, which should be some clue as to how the scene will pan out.
I tensed as the first bunch of nettles crept over my shoulders, eye-poppingly close to my face, and slowly but surely, my body started to react. A gentle warmth spread down my back, not unpleasant but still foreboding, and with repeated, firmer thwacks from the switch, the sensation of which was not unlike being gouged by rows of tiny knives, the heat became almost unbearable, raised bumps and redness popping up all over until my back was thoroughly embossed.
Each pass with the switch brought renewed writhes and squeals and elicited satisfied chuckles from our top – more sensual than sadistic indeed – but after a few minutes the pain had transmuted into a seething, tingling plume which seemed to crawl restlessly over my skin and was, to my extreme surprise, blissfully relaxing.
I felt a gardening glove kneading my flank and rose up to meet it, arching my lower back like the slut I am, and before I knew it we were all four of us in a joyful cuddle puddle, our bodies alive and aching for one another’s caress.
It had been a deeply sensual experience after all, so much so that I refused the numbing creams and waited with curiosity to see how long the effects of the venom would last, and it’s fair to say they’re still detectable now, 48 hours later, if only very faint.
Interestingly, the day immediately following the scene was mostly characterised by an irritating tickle, which Star gleefully capitalised on by having me lie on my back, the bedsheet creating a delicious itch as she donned a nitrile glove and forced four fingers into my squirming hole, granting me my second ever anal orgasm.
Truly, stinging nettles are the gift that keeps on giving.
If I’d paid money for them, I wouldn’t feel stung.
