I hadn’t anticipated how much the process could hurt, particularly when he worked over my ribs and spine. But Geoff’s hands were skilled and sure, brisk without being brusque. His demeanor was sympathetic, reassuring. It was surprising, really, that someone with Geoff’s low threshold for irritation could be so calm while he was working. Almost like dealing with an entirely different man.
Or at least like dealing with a facet I hadn’t bothered to get to know before. When he was etching his design into my skin—inch by burning, stinging inch—there was a joy and expressiveness in his eyes I hadn’t seen at any other time. He loved what he did. He was driven to it the way only those people with a passion for their art truly are. He wasn’t like Jace, whose expression could come in photographs, on paper or canvas, on a blank wall or in the aesthetic of a room. Jace was driven to beautiful things, but it didn’t matter much what he was making. For Geoff, it had to be this, had to be beauty comprised of pain and flesh and blood.
Maybe that made a certain amount of sense after all.
When he paused to give us a break, he stretched. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, baring the length of his left arm between his black glove and his elbow. The cluster of bruises along the bend there caught my eye. On the table past his arm lay the full-size drawing of the design he was inking into my skin. I closed my eyes as an image took shape in my mind. I could see so clearly the things I wanted to do with him.
Which prompted my oft-stifled internal dominant to take control of my mouth, bypassing my good intentions.
“I want to try a scene again,” I announced. Which might not have been the best idea with the euphoria of pain endorphins coursing through my veins, but it was too late to take it back now.
“Really?” That note of hope and excitement in his voice made it worth going along with whatever my id was getting me into.
“Yeah. Something that won’t require much by way of movement or stressful positions.” I was already mentally composing a list of the supplies we’d need.
Geoff’s eyebrows quirked, and he gave me a faintly exasperated smile. “Is this going to be another surprise?”
I hadn’t meant it to be, but now that he mentioned it . . . “Yeah. I think it will be. Plan to spend next Friday night on my boat with me. I’ll have everything ready.”
He nodded, accepting my evasiveness with apparent good grace. When it came time to resume working on my tattoo, the machine buzzed and his hand came to rest on my back, but the needles never touched my skin.
“Fuck,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Now you’ve got me all distracted. I’m not sure I should be working like this.”
The machine stopped humming, and I turned, smirking at him. “Like what?” I slid a hand into his lap, gripping the tight denim covering his crotch. “Ohh, like that. I see.”
“Asshole.” He snorted, still smiling. “I didn’t just mean the hard-on. I mean my attention is going to wander with me trying to figure out what you have planned. My concentration is blown to shit.”
“Well, maybe we should do something about that,” I murmured, stroking more firmly.
He groaned and pressed against my hand for a moment, then laughed again and pushed me away. “Turn around and let me at least clean up and finish tending to that ink, even if we’re done for today.”
As the week crawled by, I started refining a generic BDSM contract for our purposes, and Geoff began testing his leg to see if he could phase out the cane. His determination gave me pause, and by midweek I couldn’t keep from asking what was up. “Are you trying to prove to me you’re fit to do a scene?”
Geoff gave me a flat look. “Unless you’re planning something more athletic than the sex we normally have—which it didn’t sound like you were—what would be the point?”
I shrugged, feeling like I might be on the wrong end of things. “You just often seem to think you have something to prove. And if that’s why you’re pushing yourself, then clearly we’re not doing as well communicating as I thought we were.”
He paused in the process of organizing the racks that held all his pigments. From my view of his profile, I could see his jaw flexing, but he didn’t fire off a quick retort the way he might have once done. Instead he took a few even breaths before he spoke.
“Okay, that’s a fair enough concern. But it’s misplaced.” He gestured at the work area of his studio, where everything was halfway set up. “If I want to open next week like I planned, I have a lot of work to do. I also need to know I’m going to be able to work without my leg giving me a problem. I’m not pushing myself. I’m making sure it’s healing as well as it seems to be.” He met my eyes without the slightest bit of evasion. “That okay with you?”
I nodded, slumping against the wall. “Yeah. I just needed—”
“I know what you needed. Look, I get it. I don’t have a great track record of being honest with other people about what my body is doing, and you don’t have a lot of spare trust to throw around right now.” He grimaced and went back to sorting the bottles of ink. “But if this is going to work, sooner or later you’ve got to accept that I’m trying to make sure you know everything that’s going on. I won’t put you in the position of not knowing if I’ve got an injury again.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I pushed off the wall and squatted to open a box. “It’s probably going to take a while, and that’s my issue, not yours.”
Geoff tossed off a shrug. “We’ve got time.”
“We do. Still, I think this is stuff we need to make sure is included in our contract before we play again.” I paused in emptying the box to look at him directly. “You’re a lot calmer about this than I would have thought, considering I poked you right in a sensitive spot.”
“Yeah.” His hands stilled on the bottles of pigment, and he turned a puzzled frown toward me. “I am. I think getting laid regularly is mellowing me out.”
He said it offhandedly, but there was something about the confusion on his face that drew me across the room to take him by the hips and tug him close, kissing him slowly before I answered, “Probably doesn’t hurt.”
He pulled me down by the pressure of his fingers on the back of my neck, kissing me harder. There was a lot of need in that kiss, in the way his fingertips dug in, and I realized “getting laid regularly” was code for everything that was growing between us. I didn’t think we were ready to put it into words, except to say that it wasn’t just our compatible sexual interests that kept us coming back to each other. He was too new to having a relationship, much less one with emotions attached, and I was still too badly burned.
But it was definitely happening, and I didn’t think there was a damn thing either of us could have done to stop it.
Geoff
I arrived on Robin’s boat on Friday evening at exactly the time he’d instructed, determined not to start us off on the wrong foot by being deliberately provocative. I wasn’t much of a sub, and by the terms of the contract we’d both signed the day before, it was clear he didn’t expect me to be, but it was in both our interests for me to hand the reins totally over to him.
Which was why he’d informed me that the first thing we’d do in every scene was have him infuse me, so I could adjust my prophy schedule accordingly.
I was getting used to him doing it for me now, and he was quite good at it. Still, that one provision more than any other was going to be the one that rankled.
“It’s a good starting point,” he explained when I asked him why. “A ritual, signaling that we’re beginning. From that point on, I’m the one responsible for taking care of you until we’re done.”
It made sense, but it was harder than I thought, laying my well-being in someone else’s hands like that, trusting him with it. I hadn’t considered that angle in all my little fetishes and fantasies. It was about a lot more than the kinks we indulged, and he took that more very seriously.
Under my arm, I carried my sketch pad, which I didn’t go anywhere without these days. Robin
had specifically asked me to bring it tonight—a curious request but not an objectionable one. I bumped down the short, steep flight of stairs to the galley without my cane. It had only taken the better part of three months, but my leg was holding up fine. I was confident now that it wasn’t going to give me any problems when I opened next week. In fact, I planned to spend the rest of the weekend moving from the motel into the small apartment above my studio.
Robin greeted me with dinner and a kiss. His galley was small, but very well stocked, and Robin knew how to make the most of it. He was a good cook and enjoyed doing it, so I was happy to let him plan the meals when we were together.
“Put your stuff by the bed and take your clothes off while I set the table,” he instructed, going back to the stove. He tossed out the order as though it was nothing major.
“B-before dinner? You want me nude while we eat?”
He turned toward me, his eyebrow coming up slowly. “Was I in any way unclear?”
“No. No. Sorry.” Disconcerted, I carried my backpack to the low berth and stripped. I wasn’t sure why that command threw me off-balance, but it definitely focused my attention on the fact that tonight wasn’t going to be the usual dinner and sex.
I stupidly had to fight to keep from covering myself when I went back to the galley and sat down at the table. It wasn’t until Robin asked me if the food was all right that I saw I was fiddling with it more than eating.
“Yeah.” I stared down at my plate, realizing I’d been completely distracted, trying to guess what was coming. God only knew how many polite, noncommittal noises I’d made, responding to questions I couldn’t even remember. I shook my head rapidly to focus myself. “Sorry. My mind really isn’t on food tonight.”
He gave me a cocky grin that had my dick rising to meet the underside of the table. “Good. Eat anyway. I don’t want to have to stop because your blood sugar is crashing.”
I smiled wryly, more sure of myself when I could hide behind witticisms. “Well, that’s some damn good motivation.”
Somehow I got the food down, and then tried to concentrate on clearing the table the way he told me to, instead of hovering while he prepared my factor.
“Close your eyes and let it go,” he murmured as he swabbed my arm with an alcohol pad. “It’s all in my hands now—all your responsibility and all your worries. Just let it go. I’ve got it.”
Strangely, that part wasn’t difficult. Once he started speaking to me in that tone, gentle but in command, my brain packed it in for the night. I released the burden of looking out for my own safety. It was so incredibly easy to do with him.
The bed was covered in a sheet I last saw while I was vacationing with Jace in June. Then, Robin had used it to protect my hotel room bed from wax. There were no candles in evidence now, though. Once he had me lying down, he slipped a sleep mask over my eyes, blocking out all sight. I’d been blindfolded by him enough to know that sensory deprivation was one of his favorite ways of giving me that edge of uncertainty and danger. Of course, I could have ripped it off at any time; he never tied me up. But I didn’t. I lay there feeling helpless and vulnerable and very, very exposed.
Which was a strangely contradictory state of mind to the heat that rushed through my veins when he engulfed my cock in his mouth and began to suck.
“Oh God!” I gasped, my back arching until he pinned my hips down with both hands and set about driving me out of my fucking mind. When I wanted harder and faster, he backed off. When I was lulled into relaxation at the slow, gentle pleasure, he picked up the pace and force so suddenly, my senses couldn’t keep up. And when he had me on the quivering brink of coming, he stopped.
“No!” I pleaded, squirming to get all that nerve-singing pleasure back. But Robin grabbed the base of my cock and squeezed until I was well and truly off the brink.
“Who’s running the show tonight?” he demanded.
“You,” I sighed, stifling an unmanly urge to whimper.
“Good boy. Roll over. Position your arms and head so you’re comfortable and breathing easily. You’re going to be there awhile.”
In the darkness of the blindfold, I did as I was instructed, hugging one of the pillows under my cheek.
I twitched when I heard the sound of a spray bottle. A cool mist touched my back. The sharp, astringent scent of alcohol followed, evaporating quickly on my skin and leaving it chilled.
I bit my tongue on the urge to ask what he was doing. His hands felt strange when he stroked them lightly over the fleshy parts of my back. Was he wearing gloves?
“Just breathe and try not to tense up,” he said calmly. I heard a wrapper rustle, and then he gripped a small bit of my skin gently between his fingers. I felt . . . a pinch?
No, a poke. A pin or needle of some kind, though not the short, lower-gauge butterfly needles I used for infusing. This was longer, narrower, going through the skin on both sides rather than into a vein.
It was painless. Almost. More like heat and a lingering sense of something being there that shouldn’t be.
“Have you ever used needles for anything other than work or medical necessity?” Robin asked conversationally, sticking a second needle firmly through my flesh less than an inch away from the first.
“No?” I’m not sure why I answered like I was asking a question, except that my brain and nerve endings were trying to make sense of what was happening and not getting very far. I couldn’t have told him my own name with any surety at that moment.
“These are one-point-five-inch, twenty-seven-gauge hypodermics. They’re individually wrapped. I thought we’d start with a higher gauge and see how severe the bleeding and bruising are before we decide if we want to try a lower gauge another time.”
Several more needles went through my skin as he spoke in even, reassuring tones.
“Don’t be surprised if the endorphin rush hits you hard and fast. Something about play piercing does that to people, even though there’s not all that much pain, comparatively. But if you feel dizzy or faint, let me know right away.”
The next needle went through the thinner flesh covering my ribs, and it hurt more. I gasped, my senses still trying to comprehend all that was going on. A hot bead of something rolled down my side, quickly cooling. Blood. I was bleeding.
Having delivered his explanation, Robin fell silent, leaving me in the darkness with only my own rapid breathing, the crinkle of needle wrappers, and the faintly tantric, meditative thrum of some sort of spa music coming over the boat’s stereo.
I had pierced hundreds of people before, but I’d never been pierced. Never thought I’d want to be. But this was something different altogether, wasn’t it?
Unless the skin was particularly thin or sensitive, I barely felt the prick of the needle going in. Coming through the other side was more intense. Some felt like they bled more than others, but most of my attention was on the strange not-quite-pain of the needles already puncturing my flesh, resting threaded through my skin. When I twitched or shifted or did anything to move them, heat blossomed in a near-agonizing eruption of sensation.
So don’t move, you dolt, I told myself, and promptly began to giggle.
Which made it tip over into actual pain. Which made me giggle more.
It wasn’t that fucking funny. What the fuck?
“I sound like I’m high,” I gasped when I’d caught my breath.
“Damn right you are,” Robin said, his voice mildly amused.
“This is crazy.” I was half-euphoric and halfway to that floaty, transcendent place where nothing could touch me. Robin gently nudged the hubs of the needles, setting off a cascade effect of pain and squirming and more pain because I was squirming. The pricking of the needles going in was lost in that constant, rising ache of the ones that were already in. I had no idea if Robin was sticking them in willy-nilly or if he had a pattern he was following. Time ceased to have any meaning. We might have been there minutes or hours. Occasionally he would stop adding new needles to play with the on
es already inserted, reigniting the whole chain reaction. I didn’t know—couldn’t begin to know—how to process it.
“Just ride it,” Robin urged in response to my random babbling. “I’m almost done here. I’ll take them out. They might have begun to heal already, which means pulling them out might hurt a bit more.”
“Okay,” I said breathlessly. I might have zoned out or dozed off while he removed the needles. Occasionally I heard the quiet click of them dropping into a sharps container, or felt beads of blood roll down my skin, but I wasn’t aware of much else.
The high wore off a little during the process, and I was back in my head by the time he rolled me over and spritzed alcohol over my chest and abdomen.
“I’m not sure I can—” I gasped sharply, cut off when the first needle went into the flesh of my pec just below my clavicle. “Oh shit.”
“You can.” His voice was still low and calm, reassuring and not in the least bit jarring. “Relax. Take a few breaths. Let the tension go and sink back into it.”
And I did. Impossible as it seemed, I did. I floated right out of my head as he worked the needles into my skin in a pattern only he was aware of. First one pec and then the other, then down my abdomen and back up, until he had reached the hard nub of my nipple.
Which he took between his fingers, startling a cry from me that set the whole thing to blazing. “No! Oh God, please, no.”
“You sure?” he crooned, not pinching, but holding my nipple in the same light grasp as he had every other tent of skin.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
“You could. And you would if I told you to. Wouldn’t you?”
“I can’t,” I said again, helplessly. I wasn’t tied down in any way, and yet I couldn’t have moved even if I’d wanted to. I couldn’t refute his claim, but I was too frightened to concede the point. It left me overwhelmed and at a complete loss.
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