I Never Understood How Intoxicating Mixing Pain And Pleasure Could Be, Until I Had The Roughest Hookup Of My Life

Vanessa Porter
Vanessa Porter

“Where do you want it?” His fingers lingered just for a moment at the base of my collarbone.

“I’m not sure,” I murmured, looking into his eyes. They were a dark grey-brown, almost black, like the bark of a tree mixed with fresh mud. They reminded me of mountains, something about their mystery, their distance.

I blinked, then looked down at my chest. “Here, I think.” There was a hint of question in my voice as I pointed to where my collarbone met my right shoulder, the tiny divot of tender skin. I felt my body tingle as he ran his fingers over the spot.

“Higher?” he asked, his fingers trailing up my neck. My heart started racing; I swear he could feel my pulse, even through his gloves.

“No, here.” I guided his hand to my collarbone again, pushing down so that his fingers pressed into my skin, sending shivers up my spine. He looked at me, a mix of tenderness and concern on his face.

“That might hurt.”

“I can deal with pain.”

I saw a hint of a smirk cross his face. He turned away from me, swiveling in his chair towards the counter of tools. I heard a familiar whirring sound and watched as he dipped the edge of the tool into the ink.

“Ready?” he asked.

This wasn’t my first time in this tattoo shop. Wasn’t my first time sitting in front of Allen, this incredibly sexy, brown-grey eyed man. In fact, the last time I was here was just a few months ago, and the sexual tension had been palpable.

I’d been craving new ink for weeks now, but that wasn’t the only thing I’d been craving.

Allen leaned over me, smelling like some fucking sexy male aftershave and Wintergreen chewing tobacco. His gloved fingers brushed over my collarbone again, gently moving my hair out of the way.

“Can you put it up?” he asked.

I pulled a ponytail from my wrist and tied my hair in a loose bun. His eyes were on me the entire time, tracing the line of my collarbone, to my neck, to my lips.

I licked them playfully. “Better?”

“Much better.”

He leaned forward, one hand resting on my leg, the other mapping out the line of my collarbone and neck to get the best placement. I could feel the warmth from his glove. He inched closer to me, scooting forward, his hand moving farther up my inner thigh.

He pressed the ink transfer into my skin. I swallowed nervously.

I’ve always had such as fascination with pain. I hated it, but I loved the feeling. It was going to hurt, but a good hurt. A painful ecstasy.

“Before I get started, there’s one thing I have to do,” he said quietly, lifting the contact paper from my skin to reveal thin, black, traceable lines of ink.

His face was inches from mine. I studied the patterns on his neck, his arms, the swirls of a tribal tattoo, a dragon, a portrait of his mother mixed with words in Gaelic that I couldn’t understand. Each line and color swirled together, I found myself getting lost in their patterns.

Allen moved closer to me. His silver gauges glinted in the light. He was a muscled, chiseled, bearded man, much different than the men I was typically attracted to.

It was that fucking lip piercing, right on the edge of his mouth; it was the tattoos; it was the way he looked at me, like he was undressing me with his goddamn eyes the second I entered the room.

“What do you need to do?” I said coyly, already knowing where this was going.

His hand inched farther up my leg. I took in a breath.

He set his tools on the counter and swiveled to me, putting both hands on my legs and pulling me forward onto his lap.

Holy fuck. That did it. I was soaking wet.

He leaned backwards in his chair to shut the door behind him. Suddenly it was just the two of us, alone in his studio. And I was going to fuck him. Finally.

He turned back to me and licked his lips. I’ve never had a guy lick their lips at me, but holy shit, did it make me want to rip his clothes off.

He pulled me to him, so close that I could feel his erection through his ripped black jeans.

“Mhmm,” he whispered, slipping his gloves off and running his bare, warm hands over my breasts, “I’ve been waiting for this.”

I leaned into him, letting him pull my shirt over my head. I started nibbling his neck; he moaned, unclipping my bra and scratching my back. It made me shutter and thrust my body into him. Suddenly we were a flurry of clothes and arms and limbs, rushing to get each other naked.

He picked me up and set me on his table, the same table where he’d tattooed me before, the same table where I would later get ink pressed and sliced into my skin. The anticipation of the pain made me feel even wetter.

“I want you.” I whispered, as he loomed over me, so many muscles and tattoos and fucking irresistible skin to kiss.

His fingers entered me first, moving slow and gently. I closed my eyes and imagined his hands, completely covered in tattoos, the letters, ‘K,’ ‘I,’ ‘L,’ ‘L,’ spelled out on the four fingers of his right hand. The hand that was inside me. He started shifting his fingers, going faster then slower, faster then slower. His beard tickled my neck and he bit me playfully.

“Ready?”

I murmured in reply and he entered me, pushing the weight of him against my body. It was pleasure and pain. I cried out and he threw a hand over my face, thrusting in and out, faster and faster.

I watched his eyes, they were almost rolled back with pleasure, the brown-grey darker, more mysterious. I bit my lip and he licked his in response, biting, then pulling my lip, bringing me closer to him.

I could taste a little blood where he broke the skin. He dug his nails into the skin of my arms, pushing hard as he thrust even deeper into me.

It took everything in me not to scream.
The pain, the pleasure—it was fucking ecstasy.

He spun me around to my back, one hand on my shoulders, pulling and pushing my body in rhythm with his, the other around my mouth, keeping it shut and quiet. I bit his hand as he thrust into me. I could feel the entirety of him, deep and heavy inside; I groaned with pleasure. He pushed his mouth against mine even harder.

He thrust again and the room began to spin. I was going to cum. I stared at the posters on the walls, examples of tattoos, colors, patterns. I could feel my body begin its climax, every muscle tensing, my breathing becoming short, my body getting hot and pulsing uncontrollably.

“You gonna?” he asked, feeling my body tense beneath him. I nodded, unable to speak. He paused, then thrust into me, the deepest, the hardest, the most painful and pleasureable thrust yet.

I lost it. My body balked, caved, twisted, released and I grabbed at him, scratching him with my nails, biting at his fingers, making my pain and pleasure intermix with his.

He grabbed my shoulders to steady himself, thusting once more to cum. Then he pulled at the ponytail loosely tied around my hair, letting my curls fall to my shoulders. He brushed it aside, kissing the tender skin where my neck met my shoulder.

“I think you should put the tattoo right here,” he said, “Right where I can see it, kiss it, and bite it.” Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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