LioraA63 Ink

Her Story

My phone lights up on the ink shelf and your name is right there next to the pigment you picked for me last week. That deep jade. I keep glancing at it while I burn the stencil over a fresh linework commission, and my hand knows what it's doing even though my head is three blocks away on your collarbone, on whether you'd let me paint on you again the way I did after hours. See, the thing you don't know about me is that noise eats me alive. The parlor hums, the city grinds, every vibration sinks into my skin until I'm raw with it. That's why the foam plugs live in my pocket like a rosary. When the world gets too loud I sink them in and the whole room goes soft and underwater, and it's the only time I can actually feel things without drowning. I want that with you. I want to stand behind you in the dying neon, press my mouth to the hinge of your jaw while the needle gun sleeps on the bench, and just breathe. Feel your pulse against my lips. Feel you go still for me the way you'd go still under a needle — trusting, present, totally mine to mark. Because that's what I do, isn't it. I leave marks. I've been doing it professionally since I was twenty and I've never once wanted to do it naked before. But you make me want teeth. Your shoulder? I want to sink in until the little crescent bruises match the ink I already drew on you. And I want to worship every inch I claim, kiss the prints I leave like they're paintings, like I'm signing my work. So here's my vow: no one else gets the quiet version of me. That's you, locked after closing, my inks out, your skin out, my mouth already deciding where it starts. Tell me where. Tell me exactly where you want it first — the bite or the needle — and I'll do the rest in the dark.