Invisible Lines (Part 3)

Invisible Lines

(3)                          {start with Part 1}

Sima knew not to hold her breath, or grit her teeth, or clench her muscles. She lay on her back on the tattooist’s -Paul’s- chair, opened up to something like a recliner-qua-bed, with her left arm stretched over her head. She’d changed back out of the robe, and now had her blouse rolled up to just under her bra. Her ribcage clean and cool in the studio air; sprayed with alcohol, cleaned with green soap, swabbed with ointment.

It’s all foreplay, isn’t it, she thought.

Paul had partly rolled up his sleeves, revealing some his own tattoos at last. The one that held Sima’s attention most was the rattlesnake coiled around his right arm. There, just above the wrist of the hand that held the tattoo machine. open, fanged jaws dripped a black drop of venom – or ink.

The fact Paul saw partway through her so quickly made her wonder how many of the others had known. How much she’d given away before or on the table. It’s not like she could be much more mortified or exposed than she already had been, in front of others, and now this one. It mattered less and less as the preparation continued, too. This was where she wanted to go, and she found embarrassment and caring, and caution, fading. Like always.

“Try and keep your breathing steady as possible,” Paul said from far away. “A rising and falling chest is fine, but tell me if you need to do much more.”

She nodded, and her skin tingled with anticipation; not just where Paul’s black-gloved hands touched it, or where the lowering needle pointed, but lower down. The ache between her legs liquefied.

The tattoo machine buzzed, and she watched, exhaling a measured breath as it first kissed her. Bit her. Pierced her. The sensation shot up and down her spine and bloomed. Pain, more than any of her recent experiences. But more. Her cunt spasmed, and she had to fight not to jerk her body and shove her hand between her legs. Her exhalation turned to a moan.

Paul  lifted the needle.

“Are you ok, Sima?”

“Yesss” She hissed, “Go.”

And he did. One long, curving line of fire on her skin. In her skin. Another. The needle broke occasional capillaries as it dove into her flesh. Not many, but a fresh antiseptic cloth wiped away each red welling of blood. She twinged with them, going molten. Being able to watch was different than not being able to see. She wasn’t sure which was better, but seeing the lines grow… She forced herself not to grit her teeth, but didn’t try to stop her thighs from squeezing together. Paul was talking.

“I’m not using a stencil, because I don’t want to chance any of its line getting driven in by the needle. It may make the design less than perfect, I’m afraid. Though I did draw the one you picked freehand.”

“It’s… OK. Not like it.. matters.” It was hard to speak. For several reasons.

“Well, it matters to me. Art is art, even inkless. But don’t try to talk. It’s all right. Let me know if you need a rest or a drink…”

He continued talking, about how long he’d had his own studio (seven years), about learning the art and trade in Los Angeles, and more that Sima didn’t retain. Each stroke, hundreds, thousands of stabs of steel, irritated and violated her outer layer, and brought the red outline of the Tiger to life, and made her want to buck her hips.

Her first orgasm hit when he drew the circles-in-circles of the tiger’s eye. Sima closed her eyes, breathed raggedly, and rode it, trying to keep still as possible, give as little away as possible while the pain-transmuted to-pleasure wracked her.

Paul didn’t stop. Sliding up and around the cat’s face, cleaning, stretching, needling.

The second eye was right over one of her ribs. The circles there were both ticklish and fuck the most painful yet, and Sima sobbed. And came again, this time without the ability – or desire to hide. She wanted to cry. She held her chest as still as she could, knowing she was failing. She wanted to plead, shout Don’t stop! She heard herself make a nonsensical sound.

Paul continued, one hand pressing down steady on her, as if holding her in place, the other holding the damnable machine. Smooth, efficient, professional, implacable, merciless. She knew he’d stop if she told him to, but even though part of her wanted to scream for it to end, Sima said nothing, and thanked him silently for not trying to spare her or go easy. As the needle broke her skin, and opened her, and spilled her, and flooded her.

{Continued in Part 4}

Latest Comments

  1. paul1510 says:

    I didn’t realize tattooing could be so hot.
    You describe this almost as if you were under the needle yourself.

  2. April says:

    Still speechless. That was….. just…… incredible.


  3. thelustfulliterate says:

    Oh…goodness…that last paragraph says it all. I love how the fragments build the intensity. Quick lines…And I love how the character opens herself to the experience but still has reservations about him knowing. She’s very believable…a vulnerable, flawed character – and she’s easy to feel for.

  4. M.Penny says:

    Ok so I made the mistake of starting this somewhere in the middle just to sample it. I really wasn’t interested then and kind of wrote it off. Decided to give it another try from the beginning. Much better. I think that starting in the middle lacked a bit of the connection to who Sima is. From the beginning, I’m much more involved as I watch the character develop. Now I’m invested! I must keep reading and learn more about her story!

  5. Monocle says:

    I’m glad! I, too sometimes start skeptically in the middle. I’ve read entire stories almost backwards because of it.

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