Page 2 of Hurts So Good
Which falls like snowflakes, barely more than a gentle clap, a kiss of affection from his palm onto my flesh. It melts. The heat spreads. He works his fingers into my crack, digging then for something in the earth that he knows is there, a mole burrowing, silent, intent, clothed in velvet.
He knows precisely what it is when he withdraws his hands, leaves me propped and wanting across the bed with my wrists tugging at the silk and my hips twisting. I am parched earth, waiting for rain, waiting for the thunderclouds to darken the sky over me. He is the god of weather now, someone to worship and pray to. Hence I am prone, begging for favors.
Tu me manques, in French—“you are lacking in me”—or, translated, “I miss you.” That’s what I feel now as I wait, the exquisite lack of his touch. I can’t smell his salt and gravy scent, or feel the dry rasp of his hand against me. I can’t see his eyes darting over me, provoking me and making me squirm. Nothing but the breeze that torments me, Mistral hot and Arctic cold, the dull blank and sweet sheets beneath me and the warm tug of the silk gripping my wrists, my ankles. My body is a blank until he grants me confirmation, until he wakes me with a kiss.
He hit me, and it felt like a kiss.
“Please.”
The clouts come all at once, after a long intake of breath, a battery of stinging blows peppered over my behind. His hand feels huge, all encompassing. Now he smacks repeatedly, with the relentless precision of a metronome, with a beat in between each that lets my heart swell and my lungs fill. I hear the clapping now, there’s no music, just the sound of this, him teaching me what’s right and wrong, what’s black and white, the difference between him striking me and not touching me, the swing back and forth.
“Again,” I whisper, “again,” and he keeps going, smacking till we’re white hot and my whole groin is swarming with the word yes, shocked and ready and blessedly tender.
Then he takes me, shoves between my legs and fucks the cobwebs out of me, opens up the channel that explains everything, finally, and brings himself as close to me as a man can get. To the hilt and back out again, a definite and thorough screwing, a certain action with a certain destiny, and we’re working together toward the bang now, him cupping my reddened cheeks in his hands as he goes, laying his palms very softly over the sore and tingled skin, reminding me as we hurtle down toward the meaning of life that he is there to guide me.
Enlightenment from behind, I think it might be. Zen and the art of fucking. The way he empties the world and recreates it, perfect clarity and knowledge. Everything reduced to the places where our skin touches, or the places where he’s marked me, stamped his approval on my hindquarters like bestowing a blessing. Around us, I can see the room in sharp relief. I know exactly what hour it is, how fast the seconds are passing, how deep his cock reaches inside me. I know from his insistent thrusts how it feels for two people to be joined. Locked together. The wine glass is empty on the table beside us and the breeze is as smooth and cold as china, sliding over my skin. Life falls into place. It’s a battle and a game, one that we both stand to win.
Once we hit the right momentum, the pace picks up. I can feel him tighten inside me, feel the urgency build. We are soldiers again, moving steadily closer to the target. I push back against him as he churns into me. We brace our arms and thighs in perfect choreography, hitting each other with the determined hunger of lovers.
If I asked him a question now, there would be only one answer, one that repeats and means something more every time.
“Please,” I say, and “Yes,” he answers, holding onto me, my hips and the tender wound he’s helped open, the wound that gapes and swallows and delights in the hand that strikes it, that is finally and certainly forgiven, taken, cauterized.
Now I see for sure where we are. Now with the pain and the bliss melding under my skin, everything becomes clear. I no longer need to ask any questions, because the answer is contained within the question. The seed of him is the arrow, the pulsing and aching of my cunt as it welcomes his cock is the arrow. We are pointing toward each other and beyond to nowhere. We are agreed at last to stay here, right where we are, fucking on the brink of beautiful.
STING
Jessica Lennox
I’m no tattoo expert. I’m not a fanatic or even what most would consider an enthusiast. I admit I know almost nothing about tattoos except that they make me want to fuck, and they hurt like hell. I’m not in love with the hurt-like-hell part, but I do enjoy the effect they have on me.
I know people who enjoy the pain of a tattoo. I’m not one of them, but I do understand that there’s something seductive about knowing the person sporting the tattoo had the balls to withstand the experience. I’ve listened to people describe the pain as something akin to a religious experience, or something as blissful as sex. I’ll admit I look at these people as if they have three heads, because to me it’s more akin to an irritating, constant bee sting, and it takes every bone in my body not to slap or kick the person holding the tattoo gun.
Most tattoo shops are busiest late at night, when people are in the mood to party, or drink, or do something crazy, or all the above. I arrived relatively early, so there were only a few people hanging around—waiting to be worked on, I assumed. Since I’d never been to this particular shop before, I walked around hoping I’d get a vibe from the place.
Usually, staring at people is frowned upon, but when it comes to tattoos, it’s welcomed and appreciated, so I indulged myself and let my eyes wander from stranger to stranger, staring at the depictions of women, animals, insects, flags, and a variety of other images worthy enough to adorn their skin.
After several minutes of euphoric lusting, I brought myself back to reality and began browsing the walls of endless designs. A few images caught my eye, and I noticed all were drawn by the same person: Gia. I asked the girl at the counter if the artist was available. Lucky me! She had an opening in an hour. I browsed some of the other designs, then sat down, impatiently, grabbing a random magazine to pass the time.
Finally, Counter Girl announced Gia was ready and led me into the back area. As I followed her through the maze of hallways, I noticed that each room was private, complete with a closable door. Most shops I’d been to had curtains between booths, at best.
As we stepped into a room at the end of the hall, Gia was standing with her back to me, setting up a small table of instruments. I sat down in a plastic chair and observed that her arms and the back of her neck were adorned with gorgeous artwork. Since she was engrossed in her work, I took advantage to indulge and stare at her tattoos.
After what seemed like an eternity, she turned around, and I think I stopped breathing. Although I’d never been with a woman, I’ve always had a crushing attraction for bad girl/ tattooed/goth-girl types—and this one was certainly a stunner. She had an angelic face, but her dark makeup gave her a mysterious, hard-edged look, and her short black hair was sexy in contrast to her pale skin. The fact that her halter top showed off her perfect breasts didn’t bother me at all.
I didn’t know what else to do other than sit there and admire her until she finally motioned for me to sit on the table.
“What can I do for you?”
“Fuck me until I pass out” came to mind, but I reminded myself of my purpose for being here and replied, “I really dig your artwork. I don’t have a specific design in mind, though. Perhaps you can do something freestyle, along the lines of a tribal design.”
She stood there and looked me up and down for a few seconds. I realized that she’d probably had a thousand clients who didn’t know what the hell they wanted, and here I was—another one. I longed not to be lumped into that crowd. After a pause, she crossed her arms and said, “Well, I could, but it’s better if you choose a design; that way there’s no misunderstanding. Know what I mean?”
I nodded, catching the glint in her mouth and seeing that she had the tip of her tongue pierced with a small hoop through it. “I understand,” I said. “I’d be willing to sign something just so we don’t have any problem. I trust your artistic ability.”
She laughed and said, “Well, there’s no need for the signature. Let me just get a few specifics. Where do you want the tat?”
“Here,” I said, touching the right side of my groin.