Invisible Lines (Part 10)

Invisible Lines

(10)                  {start with Part 1}

The professional instinct in Paul scolded, then yelled at him to take care of his client; hygiene, proper care, responsibility. He wasn’t listening. He’d broken that rationality with his first kiss, and had finished the tattoo with no detachment whatsoever. His line had been just as clean, just as perfect as the first two spirals, but his and hadn’t moved in service of the design. He’d guided the needle out of his need and hers, seeking the perfect match of giving and taking. And if he hadn’t found it, he’d come so close as for it not to matter.

The line – the empty line curving away from the needle – was only the trail of interface. The real line, he saw it now, was from him to Sima, through the needle. It was almost frightening to see it that way, but Paul couldn’t deny how it felt. And when the pattern was finished, he couldn’t deny what he wanted.

Kissing her blood-beaded thigh, he inhaled her scent, visualizing the heat radiating from her sex. Just a turn of his head and he could devour her. Later.

Kissing her lips – soft, languorous, sated – stirred him further. He’d done that to her, for her. Sima’s kiss back, the tease of her tongue, her finger on his beard, her breath as he found and pulled the strings that opened her to him, all drew new lines between them. She went limp under him. Not in surrender, not mere exhaustion, but, it felt like, offering. Oblation.

He moved her carefully, draping her untouched leg over the armrest, pulling her hips to the edge of the chair, opening and pulling down his jeans in a quick moment. He’d ignored the ache of his confined cock until it was freed, and then could think of nothing else until he was buried in her cunt.

Paul held her hips as they connected and watched as he entered her in one smooth breathtaking motion. The small sound she made as he filled her seemed as loud to him as her cries under the needle. She squeezed him tight as he hilted in her, gasping as his hip brushed her red-weeping thigh. He didn’t spare the time or attention to curse, but shifted his hand to the crook of her knee, to mover her leg away from the contact. This opened her to him even more, and he used that space to fuck deeper into her.

Her head lolled as he thrust into her, relaxed as a veteran under the needle. Sima’s only movements were inside, where she milked and coaxed his cock, and her eyes, shifting slowly over his sweating, rutting body. He fucked her like a ragdoll, unable, or unwilling by the end to temper the thrust of his hips. Fucking was a sloppy, imprecise parody of the needle’s precision. But really, the machine was the parody. This was the fundamental, primal piercing, creation of symbols; drawing of the true line.

Paul yanked Sima’s hips to him as he arched into her and came, chin thrust up and exhaling a sharp exuberant sound. His cock pulsed inside her clutching cunt, and filled her. Needle, ink, mark. When he became aware again, he found himself kissing her, and her kissing weakly back.

“Sima…” Paul didn’t really have anything to say just then. Just the name.

She stretched under him, like a cat readying to nap. It felt good. Her thigh brushed him, and she mumbled and moved it away, the lethargic equivalent of a gasp and a jerk.

Sense clacked inside his skull, and Paul galvanized into action. He withdrew, not without a last shudder of pleasure, and systematically, extremely thoroughly, cleaned, disinfected, soothed, and bandaged Sima’s thigh. He didn’t let himself be distracted by the beads of cum on the lips of her cunt, until he was completely finished with the after care of the tattoo. Then, he gently tended to the other, lovely mess he’d made with a soft towel. By the time he was done, with cleaning, gear stowage, and waste disposal, Sima looked to be asleep, or so zoned as to make no difference. Not a good time to talk, and probably just as well.

Paul had locked the shop door and set sign to ‘Closed’ as he was setting up earlier, an even wiser precaution than he’d originally thought.

“I’m not going to pour you into a cab like that,” He said aloud, and set to closing the front end of the shop; lights and alarm system, shut most of the studio lights as well. Then, gently, mindful of her leg, Paul bent to the chair and picked Sima up. She was solid, with a nice heft in his arms. It felt good. She curled into him as he held her. That felt good, too. Paul carried her to the back of the shop, through the door labeled “Private” in Art Nouveau lettering, and up the stairs to his apartment over the shop.

He brought her to his bed, pulled the covers aside and laid her down, arranging her carefully, giving the thigh some room. He slipped off her short boots one at a time, and paused, looking at her foot in his hands a moment, before setting the boots by the bed. A designer logo glinted at him in the bed-table light as he tucked her under the sheet and blanket. She murmured, non-words of drowsiness and breathed deep. Paul fetched a glass of water from the kitchen sink and set it on the bed table.

“What now, Sima?” He asked her sleeping form. He hadn’t stopped thinking of the evening and its events, but he didn’t know what more to think about them. And now…

Paul returned to the kitchen, and set his kettle on for tea. Then turned the stove off, poured himself a brandy instead, and got out his sketchbook. He started with the small lotus tattoo he’d found just above Sima’s left ankle.

{Continued in Part 11}

Latest Comments

  1. dark gracie ® says:

    That was lovely to read during the wee hours of the morning. There’s an ache in me.

  2. paul1510 says:

    this is a tour de force, the transition from needle to cock totally exceptional.
    Not unexpected, but wow!

  3. Remittance Girl says:

    Oh, YES! That hit the spot just right.

  4. Deliza Rafferty says:

    I read every word three and four times over. I think I’m a little in love with Paul.

  5. Wordwytch says:

    This keeps getting better and better.

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