The chair

I locked the door at nine and killed the neon. The shop goes quiet in a way the street never does. I wiped the vinyl, tossed my gloves, and sat in the chair in my black tank, arms bare, florals dark under the lamp. I sent Joel one word. Empty.

He came in quiet and stopped when he saw I had stayed in the chair. I told him I did not want ink and I did not want the machine anywhere near the night. I wanted his mouth on my cunt. I wanted marks that fade. Shoulder, and the soft place above my hip that my jeans cover. Not the fresh work on my calf. Not hard enough to split skin. He repeated it back, every limit, and then he waited until I said now.

He kissed the inside of my wrist first. Then he set his teeth in my shoulder and bit, slow, until the ache stayed in the muscle after he let go. I grabbed the chair and asked for the other side. He gave it to me. Color came up under his mouth, heat and the wet print of him, nothing torn. He pushed my tank up and bit the curve above my hip while I lifted for him. My cunt was already hot before his fingers arrived.

I shoved my jeans down. He knelt between my boots and the footrest and put his mouth on my cunt, fucking two fingers into my cunt while his other hand spread on my ribs so I would not twist off the fresh bite. I told him not to let me rush. He licked my clit until my thighs jumped, stopped, kissed the mark, and started again. When I said please and meant it, he stood, pushed his jeans down, and drove his cock into my cunt while I was still in the chair. He held my jaw and made me look at him. I came with his teeth back on my shoulder, heels braced on the rail, my cunt clutching his cock, a sound I would not make for anyone else.

My skin sang where he had bitten. He checked each mark with his knuckle and asked if they were the right kind. They were. The fuck stayed in my skin after his cock eased out, and the only marks were bites.