Chapter 8: Needles and Ink
The damp sheets from the night before were balled up in the corner of her dorm room, a stark, shameful monument. Kim stood before her mirror, fingertips tracing the unmarked skin of her biceps, ghosting over her untouched nipples. The phantom sensations—the cold metal, the burning needle, the brutal stretch of a fist—wouldn’t fade. They had sunk into her bones, a craving more acute than any she’d ever known. Dreaming wasn’t enough anymore. She needed the proof to remain when she opened her eyes.
An hour later, she pushed through the door of a place called “Neon Gothic,” a combined tattoo parlour and adult boutique tucked into a part of town she’d normally only patrol. The air was thick with the tang of antiseptic and the sweet, cloying scent of lubricants and latex. Holographic ads for pleasure drones and bondage gear flickered on the walls, their light bleeding into the steady, sterile hum of a tattoo gun from a back room. Synthwave music thumped low in the background.
Kim kept her hood up, her red hair tucked away. She felt exposed, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs.
The woman behind the counter had hair the colour of a summer sky and a face studded with silver. She looked up, her expression neutral, professional. “Help you?”
“I, uh… I want piercings. And a tattoo.” Kim’s voice sounded too high, too young.
“Booked in?”
“Walk-in.”
The woman—Lyssa, according to her name tag—nodded. “Form’s on the tablet. ID and health cert. What kinda piercing?”
Kim’s mouth went dry. “Nipples.”
Lyssa didn’t blink. “Jewelry choice is on screen three. Tattoo design?”
Kim pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket, a sketch she’d made with trembling hands that morning: a heart, barbed wire, two flames intertwined. She slid it across the counter.
Lyssa studied it. “Solid. Black and grey with colour accents. Arm?”
“Right bicep.”
“Cool. Name for the forms?”
The alias felt like ash on her tongue. “Bonnie. Bonnie Rockwaller.”
Filling out the digital forms was a blur. She lied about medical conditions, signed the waivers with a fake signature. Lyssa led her to a private room, all stainless steel and leather. It smelled clean, harsh.
“Jewelry?” Lyssa asked, gloved hands already preparing a tray.
Kim pointed to a selection on the screen. “Those. With the small green stones.”
“Emerald CZ. Good choice. Shirt and bra off, lie back.”
Kim obeyed, the leather chair cold against her back. Her breasts felt incredibly vulnerable under the bright clinical light. Lyssa cleaned the area, her touch impersonal. She marked the spots with a surgical pen, the dots precise and damning.
“Deep breath in,” Lyssa said, holding a gleaming clamp. “And out.”
The cold metal closed over Kim’s left nipple, a sharp, shocking pressure. Then the needle.
It was a white-hot punch, a precise and devastating violation of her flesh. Kim hissed, her fingers clawing at the leather armrests, her eyes slamming shut. It hurt more than the dream. It was real, irrevocable. The pain was a bright, pure line connecting her nipple to her clit, which gave a traitorous, aching throb.
She heard the click of the jewelry being secured. Lyssa wiped away a bead of blood with a cold swipe. “Other side.”
The second was worse, because she knew what was coming. Her body tensed, anticipating the agony. The clamp. The needle’s piercing scream in her nerve endings. Another choked hiss, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Another click. Another cold swipe.
“All done. They look great. Breathe.”
Kim opened her eyes, looked down. Two green jewels glittered against her flushed skin, tiny emerald eyes staring back at her. The soreness was deep, a resonant ache. A possessive thrill, sharp and dark, cut through the pain. She was marked.
The tattoo was next. She sat upright now, arm extended. The buzz of the gun was the same sound from her dream, but now it was rooted in reality, vibrating in the quiet room. The outline was a deep, scratching burn, a relentless abrasion. Kim didn’t look away. She watched the needle carve the heart, the barbed wire thorns, her skin red and angry. The shading was a monotonous, hot scrape. When Lyssa switched to colour packs, the pain changed—a deeper, more insistent burn as the green and orange ink was hammered into her.
She thought of Shego’s hands, the concentration on her pale green face. The memory of the dream-fist inside her made her shift in the chair, a fresh pulse of wetness gathering between her legs. This pain was an offering. A dedication.
When it was over, her arm was wrapped in cling film, throbbing in time with her nipples. She paid Lyssa in cash, a thick wad of bills, avoiding her eyes.
On her way out, she passed through the boutique section. Glass cases displayed silicone and steel in obscene, fascinating shapes. Her eyes scanned, dismissed, then locked. There it was. A black dildo, thick and veiny, the veins cast in a deep, shimmering green. It was almost exactly the girth she remembered from the dream. The size of a fist.
She bought it without a word, her face burning, stuffing the plain black box into her backpack.
The walk back to campus felt surreal. Every jostle of her backpack sent a throb through her fresh piercings. The film on her tattoo felt like a second skin. She was carrying a secret, a weapon, a sacrament, all in one bag.
Back in her dorm, she locked the door. The silence was overwhelming. She emptied her laundry basket onto the floor, finding the pair of cotton panties from yesterday—the ones she’d worn to sleep, stained at the gusset with dried, crusted evidence of her first waking orgasm. She brought them to her face. They smelled of salt, of musk, of her own profound want.
Without hesitation, she balled them up and shoved the fabric into her mouth. It was a tight, dry fit, tasting of soap and her own faint, lingering tang. A pathetic, real-world gag.
She lay back on her bare mattress, naked, the afternoon light slicing through the blinds. Her right arm ached. Her nipples screamed a bright, hot song. She was already wet, just from the walk, from the memory, from the sheer fucking audacity of what she’d done.
She took the dildo from its box. It was heavy, cool, the green veins ridged and prominent. She slicked it with a clear gel from the shop, coating every inch.
Positioning the tip at her entrance, she paused. She looked at the ceiling, the panties stifling her breath. She imagined green eyes watching her, a smirk playing on full lips. She imagined a voice, low and dripping with contempt and desire.
Go on, Possible. Do it. Fuck yourself with my proxy.
She pushed.
The thick, veiny head stretched her open, a delicious, familiar burn. It was bigger than her own fingers, so much bigger. She pushed deeper, her hips lifting off the bed to meet it, taking more. The green veins dragged against her inner walls, a rough, perfect friction. She slid it all the way in until the fake balls pressed against her ass, and she was full, so utterly full.
A muffled moan escaped around the cotton in her mouth. She began to move.
She fucked herself with it, not with gentle exploration but with a driven, punishing rhythm. Each thrust hammered the base against her clit. The wet, slapping sounds of silicone plunging into her own slick cunt filled the room. She imagined it was Shego’s hand, Shego’s fucking fist, that it was Shego on top of her, driving into her, owning her.
“Fuck,” she tried to say, the word a wet, garbled mess against the fabric. Her free hand flew to her left nipple, pinching the fresh piercing hard. The pain was exquisite, a lightning rod that grounded the pleasure spearing through her core.
She rode the dildo like it was a punishment and a reward. Her thighs trembled. Sweat slicked her stomach. The fantasy crystallized—Shego’s weight, the smell of her leather corset, the cruel, approving words hissed in her ear.
You’re a natural cocksleeve. My cocksleeve. Come for me, you desperate little slut.
The orgasm detonated, a raw, convulsive explosion that ripped through her with zero grace. Her cunt clenched viscously around the black silicone, milking it, her back arching clear off the bed. A raw, scream was completely swallowed by the gag. She shook, wave after wave of brutal pleasure tearing through her, until she collapsed, spent, the dildo still buried inside her.
She lay there panting through her nose, the taste of her own cotton underwear thick on her tongue. A warm, sticky puddle cooled beneath her. Slowly, she pulled the dildo out, a slow, obscene withdrawal that made her twitch again. She didn’t clean up. She just curled onto her side, pulling the black, green-veined toy to her chest, clutching it like a talisman.
The throbbing in her arm and her breasts was a steady, comforting drumbeat. Proof. She closed her eyes, a faint, satisfied smile touching her lips, and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.