Ink Under My Hands

The massage table creaked under Lena’s weight as I pressed my thumbs into her lower back. She was wearing nothing but a towel, loose around her hips, and I could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out—a black vine curling from her tailbone up toward her ribs. I’d seen her at the neighborhood barbecues, always in a sundress, always smiling at her husband. But I’d never seen her like this. Bare. Quiet.

“You’re tense here,” I said, my voice low. I traced the edge of the ink with my fingertip. “What’s this one?”

She turned her head, cheek pressed into the face cradle. “A cover-up,” she said. “From my twenties. I was wilder back then.”

“Wilder than now?”

She laughed, soft and breathy. “Dmitri. You have no idea.”

I let my hand drift lower, past the towel’s edge. Her skin was warm, slick with oil. “Show me the rest.”

She didn’t answer with words. She just reached back, unhooked the towel, and let it slide away. Her whole back was a canvas—black roses, thorns, a dagger down her spine. I exhaled slow.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“Told you. Wilder.”

My hands moved without permission. I spread my palms over the ink, feeling the ridges of scar tissue beneath the roses. She arched into my touch, a small sound escaping her throat.

“Dmitri… we shouldn’t.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

She didn’t. I slid my hand between her thighs, found her wet and ready. She gasped when my fingers pressed inside her, her hips pushing back against my hand.

“You’re soaked,” I said, my mouth close to her ear.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months. Every time you waved at me from your driveway.”

I pulled my hand out, brought my fingers to my mouth. She tasted like salt and smoke. “Turn over.”

She did, slow and deliberate, her tits falling to the sides, her pussy open and glistening. I could see more ink—a floral sleeve on her arm, a small star on her hipbone. I wanted to lick every line.

I dropped my pants, my cock already hard, and climbed onto the table. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my ass.

“I’m married,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t care.”

I pushed inside her in one slow, deep stroke. Her mouth fell open, a ragged moan slipping out. I covered her lips with my hand. “Shh. The walls are thin.”

She nodded, biting my palm as I fucked her. Slow at first, deep and grinding, watching her tits bounce with every thrust. Her nails raked down my back.

“Harder,” she breathed.

I grabbed her hips and drove into her, the table squeaking beneath us. Her eyes rolled back, her body shuddering. I could feel her tightening around me, her orgasm building.

“I’m gonna come,” she gasped.

“Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

She did, her whole body convulsing, a strangled cry muffled against my shoulder. I kept fucking her through it, chasing my own release. When I came, I buried myself deep, emptying into her with a grunt, my forehead pressed to hers.

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing together, sweat mixing on our skin.

She finally laughed, quiet and raw. “You’re going to have to clean that table.”

“Worth it.”

She sat up, the towel back around her waist. “I should go. My husband…”

“I know.”

At the door, she paused. “Same time next week?”

I smiled. “I’ll have the oil ready.”

The next morning, I saw her at the mailbox. She was in a sundress again, and she smiled at me like nothing had happened. But I knew. Under that dress, under those roses and thorns, I was still inside her.