Orgasm in Ink

My body responded the instant that the needle first made contact with my skin, the pain and pleasure intertwined. But I never expected the response to be so strong, so intense.

Moments earlier I had felt so self-conscious and insecure. I stood naked in the cold, sterile room. I was alone except for a large black leather chair and next to it a steel rolling tray. The lighting in the room was bright, much brighter than I expected. Not a warm light, but instead artificial, even surgical. The room was clean and smelled from antiseptic cleaner. But the thing I noticed most was how cold it was. The room was so cold that I could feel my body react. My feet could find no warmth on the cold tile floor. My skin felt like ice. My nipples reacted too, drawing tight and erect. I was painfully aware of my own naked awkwardness.

He entered the room, busy with his own preparations, barely acknowledging my presence. He spread his tools out on the tray, carefully, methodically inspecting each one. Only after he had arranged everything perfectly did he turn his attention to me. He directed me to come under the light. With a steady, even voice he directed me to turn, bend and twist. With the eye of a surgeon, he studied me. He raised his hands, covered in black latex gloves and touched my skin. Without any emotion, he manipulated my body. I looked away as he ran his hands alongside the curve of my breast and down my side. I could feel him probing with his fingers, testing my skin, feeling the flesh, bone and muscle underneath. He ran his fingers down my side, tracing my ribs, and feeling the softness of my curves. He ran his hands over the crest of my hip and across my flat belly. He instructed me to turn, so that he could run his fingers down the side of my hip and down along the side of my ass. I could feel him dissecting me with his eyes, planning what he was going to do to my body and how he was going to do it. Never before had I felt so aware of my nakedness.

He adjusted the chair, so that it was nearly flat and directed me to climb on it. The cold black leather offered no warmth, its iciness stinging my skin. He directed me to lie on my side as he carefully draped my body with surgical draping. I hoped the draping might warm me, but it too offered no softness, no warmth of any kind. He cleansed my skin with a cold, antiseptic wash, the astringent odor burning my nose. Then, with faint lines, he marked where and how he was going to change my body permanently. I could feel his pen marking my skin, as he laid out his plan for me. My skin was sensitive from the cold. I could feel each and every stroke of his pen. When he completed his planning, he stepped back to examine his markings from every perspective. Only when he was completely satisfied with his plan, did he speak. With a detached, professional voice, he warned, "this is going to hurt."

He sat down on his stool and adjusted the light over my body. My skin, firm and taut, was his. I was nothing to him, not a girl, not a friend, not even a person. I was a canvas. And he was an artist.

I heard the buzzing of the machine before I felt it. With a gloved hand he pulled the skin alongside my breast taut, and lowered the needle. My skin was electric and as the needle entered me, I felt as though I had exploded. He moved along the curve of my breast, the needle piercing my skin hundreds of time per second. Sure, I could feel each sting as the sharp tip entered my skin. But it was the vibrations of the machine and needle that struck me to my core. While the pain was sharp, the vibrations were nearly hypnotic.

He worked so close to my breast that I could not help but feel the vibrations so deeply. I struggled to ignore the sharp, stinging needle, instead focusing upon those vibrations. I could feel my breasts undulate, my nipples swelling. I could not recall a moment when they were ever harder, more sensitive. Unconsciously, I slid my arm underneath the surgical sheeting, moving my fingers to my breast. As the machine continued to torment me with its deep vibrations, I rolled my nipple between my forefinger and thumb. As I struggled not to move, a soft sigh, almost a moan, escaped my lips. My eyes rolled back as my nervous system was overloaded with the sensations of pain and pleasure.

Slowly, methodically, he worked his way down my side. As he worked, I could feel my body's struggle between the pain and the pleasure. As the needle moved across my ribs, the pain eclipsed the pleasure. The needle felt like a knife slicing through my skin into my flesh. But as he moved down to the softness of my curves, I again could feel those vibrations again, now shaking me to the core. As he slid machine down my body, closer and closer to my pussy, I could feel my lips swell and the wetness deep inside. As he stretched the skin over the crest of my hip, I could feel the vibrations of the machine shaking me deeply inside. I struggled to find a point to focus on, but my vision blurred as the sensations continued to assault my system.

He moved down further, the machine down at the side of my ass. The pain and pleasure, which had struggled against each other, now worked in unison. The pain fed the pleasure. My body, which had recoiled at the constant attack of the needle, welcomed the sensations of pain and pleasure. It was more than just being naked. My skin, once a barrier, no longer protected me from the waves of pain and pleasure. I was raw, unprotected flesh, blood, bone and muscle. Every nerve was exposed and raw, the synapses exploding along my entire system.

I was acutely aware of the rhythm between the machine and my body. The long strokes of the needle gave way to lighter, faster ones, which, in turn, became harder and deeper. Faster. Slower. Softer. Harder. I struggled to remain still as my body writhed. I clawed at the leather chair, desperately trying to anchor my body. The once antiseptic air began to fill with the sweet, muskiness of my sex.

As the assault of the needles continued, I could feel my womanhood respond. My clit, swollen and sensitive, became a lightning rod for all the pain and pleasure wracking my body. I could feel it grow, pulling out of its folds. I squeezed my thighs together tightly, focusing all of the sensation deep into my pussy. As I squeezed, my clit rolled between the swollen, wet folds of my pussy. I felt all of the pain and vibrations become focused, channeled deep into me.

No longer able to fight against my body, I could feel my orgasm build deep inside. But unlike any other orgasm I ever had, I could see, not just feel, this orgasm. The colors of his palette exploded in my body and inside my closed eyes. The heavy boldness of the black. The richness of the green. The iciness coolness of the blue. The softness of the pink and brightness of the yellow. The fire of the orange burned its way from deep inside my pussy all the way up my spine exploding in fireworks in my head.

But it was the red. As my muscles tightened and my clit rolled between my swollen lips, I could feel the red. It vibrated in concert with the machine. Deep and intense. Smoldering. Matching the thick redness of my blood. The red grabbed hold of me. I was completely powerless, unable to fight its intensity. I surrendered. My toes curled and I shook deep inside, careful to contain the lava flowing inside me. Stripped naked and torn from my skin, I could not contain myself. My soft sighs became deep, guttural moans, which in turn became squeals of unbridled passion between clenched teeth. My own wetness flowed, a trickle becoming a puddle spilling over the side of the leather chair.

As I lay there panting, I could feel the vibrations end. A coolness spread along my body as he spread the salve across me. Its icy greasiness was massaged into my skin, allowing me to regain control over my body.

With the same surgical precision that he showed hours ago, he turned away from me, carefully cleaning his tools. Without a word, he packed his tray and left me alone, sprawled nude and exhausted on the leather chair, now sticky with my own juices. I lay there for several minutes, unable to move.

Finally, I rose and on wobbly legs and made my way over to the wall mirror. No longer self-conscious, I welcomed the coldness of tile against my toes. I stood in front of the mirror and admired the artistic expression of my orgasm. A curled black and green vine ran from the curve of my breast down my side, and over the crest of my hip, ending along the soft firmness of my ass. Dotted along the vine were beautiful orchids full of rich reds, blues, oranges and yellows. Each color reminded me of a wave, a sensation. I smiled at the beauty... an orgasm in ink.