INKED 8: A Tattoo Shop Reverse Harem

“Still,” he says. “I want you to stay still.”

With the back of his hand, he trails down the edge of my face, allowing his fingers to drift across my lips like the tender wings of a butterfly. I close my eyes while he caresses my neck and across the tops of my breasts. It doesn’t feel overtly sexual. Rather, this touch seems reverential. He’s worshiping my form with his eyes and his tender touch. When the back of his finger glances the point of my nipple, it feels like he’s testing my responses.

I will my body to remain impassive, but who am I kidding. Gooseflesh breaks out all over me, and I worry that the tiny scrap of fabric between my legs won’t be enough to stem the flow of my arousal. His hand moves lower, still with the same slow back and forth over my ribs. I hold my belly in tightly, but Carl tuts again. “You don’t have to modify yourself for my gaze,” he says. “I want to see you as you are.”

Wow. Is he serious? I let my abs soften slowly, and he makes a low rumbling sound in his throat.

“You know how good you look? How soft and perfect?”

Do I?

I tell myself that I’m at peace with my body, but then I hold myself into what I think is going to be a more appealing shape. I judge myself against the women I see on social media. But Carl isn’t interested in the aesthetic of someone else. He’s touching me as though I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

“There are so many things I want to do to you, Kyla,” he murmurs. “So many wicked things. Do you think you can take it?”

Even though I have no idea, I nod. If nothing else, I want to take what he has to give. I want to be Carl’s good girl more than anything.

“Yes,” I say.

“You remember what we talked about?”

I nod, remembering the instructions he gave me in his firm, low voice, remembering the way it felt to internalize his directions and demands.

“Get up and rest yourself over my knee. Brace your hands on the floor.”

For a few seconds, I remain paralyzed as the realization of what might be coming hits me like a tornado. In that position, there will be no way for me to resist Carl’s actions. No way to stop him from exploring or hurting my body.

I know if I told him I wanted to stop right now, he would. He’d listen and treat my wishes with respect. But I don’t want to do that. I want to know the depths of this man’s kink, and I want to understand my own reactions. This whole game is about trust and exploration. But it’s also about facing up to uncertainty and forcing myself to go to places that fear might have prevented in the past.

What am I afraid of? The pain of his hand slapping against my skin, or that I’ll like it? The idea that he might be able to make me come in such a helpless and vulnerable position where I can do nothing but beg for his attention and hope that he’ll give it to me? Or is it the idea of him seeing me so vulnerable and so trusting?

The last time I’d allowed myself to be vulnerable in front of a man, he’d smashed my heart to pieces. Being vulnerable isn’t easy. Facing the chance of being hurt again makes me want to hide under a rock.

But I have to do this because I want to. I need to heal. I need to break through the horrible way my ex treated me so that I can stop living like a traumatized hermit and live my life.

I want to find love. I need to be loved. But love doesn’t come without vulnerability and trust. It can’t break through fear.

I stand on legs that feel weak and close my eyes for one, two, three seconds. Carl brushes my fingers with the tips of his, as though he feels my anxiousness and wants to help me. It’s not easy to get into the position he wants me in. I have to bend forward and rest my body over his knees, bracing on my tiptoes and fingertips, holding myself as tight as a bowstring. Beneath me, his legs are thick and strong. A satisfied hum leaves his lips as his hand slides down over my back, lingering at the dip of my waist and then drifting lower. His warm, rough palm hesitates on the roundness of my ass, his thumb pressing into the flesh there as though he’s testing the feel of it.

For a few seconds, I expect his fingers to drift lower, seeking out the wetness of my entrance. I expect him to play with me until I’m trembling and then stop, so I whimper and beg for him to finish me. But he doesn’t.