Hammer Rash

A five minute fiction for your weekend

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Sometime during my misspent youth, I was once unlucky enough to have caught my thumb between a stationary 4 inch nail and the head of a rapidly moving smoting tool, or as modern men may prefer to call it, a hammer. And after a grotesquely black-nailed sleepless night, and an un-remittent next day of a severely throbbing swollen digit, I returned home after a hard days labour, to my shared house where I relayed my plight to Christine my flatmate, she was a newly qualified doctor.

“Oh, you need to go to the hospital to get your nail pierced!” She advised, in her alluring Scottish accent (Before the invention of the Indian practitioner, all British doctors were once Scottish for some reason. I think it was the law or something), “That will release the pressure.”

“Or, I can do it for you now if you want?” she asked while looking me straight in the eyes.

Now, two things:

First off, by now I was in severe agony, and I couldn’t bear the thought of a minimum four-hour wait at Accident & Emergency with all the inherent junkies and the drunks for company.

And secondly… Apart from her sultry-yet-authoritative accent, Christine was possibly the most sexually attractive woman I have ever shared a confined space with. And this particular day, we were talking about a very small kitchen. A very confined space indeed.

tension

So, only too eagerly, I heard myself reply “Yes”, and expected her to go fetch a doctor’s bag form her car or something, although I had never actually seen her with one. I just assumed doctors were issued with them as soon as they qualified.

You can imagine my dismay as she just turned and began to rummage around in the adjacent kitchen drawers, searching amongst all of our accumulated crap until she uttered an “Aha!” and turned towards me holding aloft nothing more than a paperclip!

“Right!” she enthused, “let me just get the gas on!”

She must have sensed my bewilderment and quickly began to reassure me with a description of the procedure that she had in mind for me and my only reason for being at the top of the food chain, my swollen opposing thumb:

“I’m going to heat the paperclip until it’s red hot, and then I’m going to burn (or should I say, melt) a hole through your nail into the skin below it to relieve the pressure of the blood building up behind it!” she purred in her seductive Caledonian brogue.

OK, I know. I should have begun running the moment she produced the paperclip. I should have kept running to the nearest phone box and phoned the medical authorities, and then run some more; but I didn’t.

Why not? Well like I say, I was in a confined space with the type of lubricious professional female than only James Bond usually gets to meet. And let’s face it, she was offering me penetration, the only real chance of penetration I was ever likely to get to experience with her. And it wasn’t just my thumb that was throbbing now… despite all the pain.

We were two young hot bodies, pressed up against each other in the confines of a tiny kitchen. Our faces within inches of each other and our eyes desperately conversing, looking for answers, exploring the expressions and signals we were each giving off. The tension between us was electric. It was all or nothing from this point onwards…

“Ready?” she asked in the most seductive voice I had ever heard from her.

Never taking my eyes away from hers, I nodded back.

“Let’s do this then”, she replied as she pushed her warm curves even closer.

“OK!” I stupidly agreed, and placed a trembling digit into her hand, hoping she would lead me to the nearest bedroom…

The paperclip finally glowed a bright and vivid orange and she smiled sympathetically at me as she turned, and approached with the words “Now, this is really going to hurt!”

She grabbed my thumb and proceeded to push the scorching hot metal slowly through my thumbnail, which immediately began to emit an acrid ammonia smelling smoke. The pain was agonising as our eyes stared intensely at the needle gliding its way through my thumb.

I had an involuntary spasm and rapidly pulled my hand away.

“Oh no!” she cried, ambiguously “I was nearly there! So close!” and appeared to be genuinely disappointed with my lack of manliness. You could feel the intense pleasure she was feeling while inflicting her bittersweet pains on me. I had let her down and she showed it.

“OK,” I replied, calming myself, “try it again”, I said as I took the cooling paperclip and dropped it into her beautifully delicate, yet masterful hands.

She reheated the clip, and then, with her leaning over beside me to get a closer view, I found myself grimacing, taking a deep breath, and after pausing for a contemplative second, she once again pushed that burning piece of metal through my thumbnail.

The pain was indescribable, and I let out a sizable “Aaargh!” as my fist clenched tightly and the fiery stylus burnt its way through and pierced the blackened nail. As the all-consuming agony rapidly accelerated, there was just as suddenly a release of a different nature, a relief from the pain itself, along with a violent release of the trapped blood which gushed from my smouldering finger, across our entwined bodies and up onto the galley walls. There was a shrill scream from my accomplice who threw her hands to her face as the spurt gushed outwards at her.

The relief was as indescribable as the initial pain. I exhaled, she dropped the paperclip, I shook my haemorrhaging hand and she eased herself back against the cupboard nearby. She then pressed her hands to her chest, her eyes fully dilated and cried out, “Oh My! That was exciting!”

And how we both laughed as we wiped my emissions from the tiling.

Next thing, she was asking to inspect the wound, and volunteered to expertly bandage my traumatised limb. And then that was it really. Now there was just me, Christine, the kitchen, and nothing more than a not so black, far less throbbing fingernail between us. I don’t think I ever got that close to Christine again. Well not unless you count that time I came home with a nosebleed, but that dear reader, would be a whole other big bag of plasma!

Oh and by the way, after this surgery of eroticism, my fingernail eventually died and dropped off. And worse, it took AGES to grow back again. They never tell you about that bit do they?

And as for Christine? Well in the end, she married an old balding advertising man and moved down south to live happily ever after her divorce. That’s how it goes isn’t it?

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