I only came in for a septum piercing.
That's it.
It was supposed to be a five minute stop before meeting my friends for drinks. But when I stepped into The Ink Sanctum and the bell above the door jingled like a warning, I knew something about this place was off.
Too quiet.
Too charged.
The front of the parlour was sleek but shadowy black leather chairs, red lights under the counters, and a wall lined with steel art and erotic body sketches. Music played low and bass heavy, humming through my skin like a heartbeat I hadn't earned.
The receptionist gave me a form.
But I barely filled it out.
Because that's when I heard her.
Behind the Black Door
There was a door in the back labelled Private Marks Only.
It was matte black. Soundproofed. With a glowing crimson sign that read:
SESSION IN PROGRESS. DO NOT DISTURB.
But the moans still got through.
Real moans. Shaky. Deep. The kind of sound you don't fake because it lives in the gut.
She whimpered once, then gasped.
Louder.
Breathless.
Ragged.
I froze.
The girl next to me shifted uncomfortably and asked the receptionist for water, pretending not to notice.
But I couldn't stop listening.
The tattooist's name floated to my memory like a secret:
Rafe Mercer.
He was the reason I chose this place.
No Instagram. No website. No public bookings.
Just rumours.
He chose his clients.
And once you went behind that door
You came out marked in more ways than one.
The Listening
Her moans grew louder.
Desperate now. Higher pitched. Rhythmic.
There was no mistaking it she was coming.
Hard.
On the other side of that door.
And the voice that followed?
Rafe's.
Deep. Controlled. A voice that could undress you without ever raising a hand.
"That's it, sweetheart. Take it like the good girl you are."
I inhaled sharply.
My thighs clenched. My breath hitched. My fingers trembled on my phone, pretending to scroll.
Then her voice shattered through again:
"Don't stop, please, please, Rafe, more."
The Slip
I was soaked. And I hated myself for it.
No. That's a lie.
I loved it.
I slid my hand down beneath the hem of my oversized T-shirt. I wasn't wearing panties. I hadn't planned for this just laundry day laziness, but now it felt like fate.
I angled my hips slightly, leaned forward, and slid two fingers through my folds. Wet. Slippery. My own scent already rising to my nose like arousal confessing itself.
My other hand covered my mouth.
I matched the rhythm of her moans with slow, needy strokes.
Every time she cried out, I moved faster.
When Rafe grunted something filthy"You want me deeper? Ask again."I bit down on my wrist to muffle my cry.
I was going to come. Right there. In the damn waiting room.
And I didn't care.
The Door Opens
The sign turned off with a soft click.
I froze. Still hunched over. Still recovering from the orgasm that nearly took my breath away.
The door creaked open.
She came out first hair messy, lips swollen, thighs visibly shaking as she adjusted her skirt.
And then he appeared.
Rafe Mercer.
Tall. Lean muscle wrapped in black ink and clean sweat. Gloves off, hands scarred from needles, and god knows what else. His eyes found mine.
Saw me.
Really saw me.
My flushed cheeks.
My trembling hands.
My thighs are still pressed together.
And something in his mouth curved, not a smile. A knowing.
The Invitation
He leaned casually against the doorframe.
Didn't blink.
Didn't say hello.
Just stared until the heat in my belly climbed back up my throat.
Then voice low, just loud enough for only me:
"Did you enjoy the preview?"
I licked my lips. Nodded. Couldn't speak.
He stepped forward, just enough for his scent to reach me sandalwood, smoke, and something that smelled like sex.
He leaned down, whispering against my ear.
"You come back tomorrow. Alone. No piercing this time. Just you and the chair."
Then he walked away.
And I knew before I stood up
I was already his next confession.