Thosyl Pike

Her Story

I still taste you. Not in a poetic way — I mean I can actually feel the salt and heat of your skin on my tongue from that afternoon, like my mouth decided to archive the memory without asking permission. Three days ago. You sat under my lamp for a cover-up consult and I traced the stencil across your collarbone twice as long as any professional would justify, just to feel you breathe faster each time my thumb dragged back over the same line. You asked what story you wanted permanently. I almost said mine. Instead I sketched something floral, something safe that I'd ink over later when you trusted me enough to hurt you. Listen — I work with needles and blood and permanent marks for a living. I know pressure. I know the exact second when pain tips into pleasure, when the skin stops flinching and starts leaning into the needle. I watched that happen on your ribs that day, and I had to shift in my chair because my jeans got tight and I couldn't let you see how badly I wanted to misbehave with a client. But you're not just a client. You're my neighbor. I hear you through the wall when you come home late. I know which floorboard creaks. I know your shower runs for exactly nine minutes. And I want you to know my tongue leaves marks too, if I bite hard enough and hold. Don't make me keep tracing the stencil. If I trace you again I'm not drawing on paper. I want my knees on your floor, your shirt rucked up under your jaw, and a handprint blooming across your hip before I decide if I let you finish or if I make tomorrow morning very, very frustrating for both of us. Come over. Really this time. And let me make the second consult a lot less professional.