Page 14 of Mine for 24 Hella-Hours
“Why?” I ask skeptically.
Arching a brow at me, “I want it to be a surprise, and I want to see the look on your face when you see it for the first time painting your skin.”
“Okay.” I can’t argue with this nor do I want to. “No dicks on my thigh though.”
“I would never. Not my style.” He cackles, exposing that big, bright, captivating smile of his.
He pulls a silky bandana from a drawer by his side and strides over to me. His fingers brush my neck gently as he removes my hair backward, tucking it behind my ears. The soft way he touches me tickles them in the process of tying the blindfold.
He finds little subtle ways to touch me like he craves my contact.
Silence permeates the space as goosebumps trail over my body. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and I feel as though I am waiting for the hammer to drop.
I jump slightly at the first touch of his gloved hand. He cleans my flesh with disinfectant alcohol and rubs a thin layer of what I assume to be Vaseline to protect the skin.
The machine roars to life. I’m waiting to feel the first pinch of pain when his tender voice envelops me instead. “If you need a break or if it hurts too much tell me to stop and I will immediately.”
“I will,” I reply, nodding my head as I clench my fists at my sides.
The strokes of the machine are penetrating a few layers of my epidermis. Making art. Writing a story. His soft yet firm hold on me is fucking delicious I almost moan at the friction. Euphoria diluted with pain building to a stimulating experience.
An hour has gone by according to Luka who keeps filling me in. Curses silently fly over my head as I wince to the pain without moving my thigh and only balling my fist until my nails dig into the skin. And then, I slightly ease up.
Rock music plays softly through his phone, unlike the deafening volumes at which I would usually listen to it. This is part of the reason I’m able to keep myself calm.
His hands stretch the skin at the inner part of my thigh. Every graze and brush of his fingers on my flesh makes me want to combust. Painful as it is,histouch is healing.
“You okay?” His soft tone calms my racing heart.
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, balling my fists for the hundredth time.
“You’re doing great!” The way he praises me sends shivers down my spine and heat between my thighs.
“Can I ask you—“
He cuts me off, “Ask me anything.”
“In the club, there’s a neon sign that says ‘sex is art’ Why the sign?”
“A reminder. Sex is something that many people use for different reasons, like breeding, survival, or even addiction. All true. But it should never be a chore on a list.” He pauses, squeezing my knee gently, “It’s more than that when done right.”
Enthralled by that little gesture, “What do you mean?” I swallow hard.
“I don’t think enough people realize sex can be art.” Drawing another line on my burning skin, he adds, “It involves trust, communication, connection, and touch. And I don’t believe everyone makes it satisfactory for their partner.”
I get what he is saying and I felt like that for a long period. I thought that when you find someone with whom you connect and their desires are mirroring yours, they would understand the craving to bring you both to the sweet edge of release.
“Look, I’m a dark soul when it comes to the world inside my head that translates to my art but not everything I touch is black.”
A tickling sensation makes my toes curl.
“The shades of desire, emotion, lust, love, pain, and pleasure are colorful and so is sex. When you see it as one shade you’re bound to be disappointed, yet when you stroke colors to it, it becomes art.”
There’s something about Luka that pulls you in. Captivates you. Fascinates you. His mysterious appearance casts you under his spell. Who the devil is underneath that rough exterior? Behind all his art. Behind his monsters.
“A quick water break.” He announces before I hear the soles of his boots echo as he goes.
Realizing I didn’t ask how long is our session, “How much longer?”
