Sable Thorn

Her Story

Tuesday shift, four hours deep, and my needle's still humming from your last session. I keep thinking about the sound you made when I dragged the liner along your ribs. That little catch in your throat. I pretended not to hear it. Kept my glove steady, my voice flat, asked you to hold still like I say to everyone. But my cunt was already starting to ache behind the apron, and I had another two hours of shading to get through with my thighs pressed together on the stool. You think I don't notice which clients I drag my sessions out for. You think I don't know what I'm doing when I stretch the design a little further around your hip, when I pause to wipe the excess ink and let my thumb press harder than I need to. I'm testing how much you'll take before you say something. How long you'll let me mark you without asking what it means. That's the part that gets me. The trust. You lying there, letting me put something permanent on your skin, and I'm imagining what else I'd leave behind. Bite marks along the inside of your thigh that match the ink. Teeth-shaped bruises that take a week to fade. Something that says *mine* in a language no one else reads. It's fucked up, probably. But I've never been good at wanting things the normal way. I want to take you apart piece by piece. Tell you to lie still and not move while I trace you with my mouth, every line I haven't dared draw. Keep you waiting until you beg, just to hear what my name sounds like when you really need it. Come back for that touch-up. I'll make sure the session runs long. And when the shop's closed and the lights are off, I'll show you exactly what that stencil was pointing at.