"Stay still," he breathed, pushing himself against my back, "I'll be gentle, I promise."
I was so completely taken by the drunken haziness of it all that I didn't feel much; just the prickly cold air against my skin and the dull scraping of the metal against my bare thigh. It wasn't until a little later, when the pain appeared all at once in sudden, violent eruption, that I began to shiver against his touch, and, I swear, his hand seemed to grow purposely heavier, his needle rougher, and his breathing shallower. He's enjoying this.
"It hurts," I whispered against the wall, and he was eager to oblige, digging his needle deeper into the back of my thigh until I was gasping for air, begging him to please, please stop. And when he finally did, I felt a strange kind of excitement rush through me; a twinge and a tingle in places they had no business being. Adrenaline, I thought, it has to be.
"Look," he said, smiling up at me, "What do you think?"
It was a tiny little thing; the word Min, black against the back of my thigh. Min was short of Minnie; he said I was his mouse,
small and squeaky and utterly defenseless. I guess this tattoo was his way of claiming me; marking my flesh with his words so that everyone knew that he owned me. He was branding his kettle. And once he grows sick of me, will he slit my throat and be done with me?
He brought his hand to the back my thigh and brushed his palm over the warm, sticky skin, "It's revolting."
"I revolt you, then?"
He smiled, licking the corner of his lips, "You always do."
"Well, In that case, you revolt me too."
He stepped closer, hanging his head over mine and pressing himself firmly against me, his ribs digging into my chest, and he kept pushing himself harder, deeper, until it felt as if I going to snap under his force. And then he pulled away and calmly whispered, "No, I fucking don't."