Intimate Ink Novels & Stories

It brings back that memory I've kept locked away for years. My thighs press together, sparks traveling straight to my pussy. Fuck me, he is yummy to look at. My gaze travels lower, my pulse pounding in my throat. Right there, inked in delicate signature-style cursive low on the inside of his left thigh... is my name. Worse, it’s not just any font. It’s in my handwriting! The letters are bold, permanent, and far too intimate. I gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud. "What the actual fuck...?"

Not being able to hold back anymore, her hand went down to fumble with his denim shorts, trying to pull them down just enough to reveal his shaft when Sebastian stopped her. "Clothes off. I want all of your clothes off." He panted, enhancing his point by tugging on her bikini top, almost as if he wanted to tear it away. Fuck, he couldn't get any hotter, sharing her likes in exhibitionism? The thought of any of their friends watching them or walking in the middle of their session gave such a heated rush to her being. She gripped the hem of his white tank top, sleeveless and practically useless because it covered nothing. She helped him remove it, throwing it to the side. Her fingers grazed th

They collapsed onto the bed, a heap of spent, trembling muscle. I sat there on the floor, the heavy heat of the "special tea" finally fading, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. I had wanted a slut kink. I had wanted to be ruined. I had wanted the forbidden. And I had gotten it. I had destroyed my relationship, fractured my family, and turned my stepbrothers into my addicts. I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror—covered in the evidence of my "variety," my eyes dark and hollow.

His breath tingled my skin and found myself hungry for more. I had never been exposed to any level of intimacy. I was pretty illiterate when it came to anything of those sort, again something I could easily blame my friends for. He sucked the skin of my neck. A foreign sound escaped my lips. I close my eyes because I was afraid to look into his eyes and because I had no idea what to do with my hands that were kept on either side of me. Allen raised his head and planted a soft kiss on my cheeks. I was a blushing mess, I took a glimpse of his azure eyes. Lately I had been unable to stop myself from gazing into them. His eyes held mysteries that I yearned to explore.

Her hands are cold when she picks it up. Three words. Scrawled in slanted handwriting, ink a little smudged. I see you. Her breath escapes her lips in a slow, tremulous exhale. Her chest tightens. The words aren’t vulgar. They aren’t explicit. But they’re worse. They’re invasive. Observant. Intimate. She glances toward the locked door as if it might reveal something on the other side. He’s out there. Watching. Knowing. The note flutters from her fingers to the floor.

Elara Quinn had never walked this far into the city’s underbelly. Her driver had begged her not to go, but she had dismissed him. Tonight wasn’t about polished ballrooms or charity galas. Tonight was about anonymity. She pulled her coat tighter as she entered the narrow loft staircase, the faint thrum of bass from a nearby club vibrating the walls. At the top, the door stood ajar. She pushed it open, and the world shifted. The studio smelled of turpentine, sweat, and smoke. Dim lights illuminated canvases scattered across the room, massive strokes of color, splashes of anger and lust. Ink-stained sheets hung from the ceiling like veils.

“Say it out loud while I get you ready.” Emma’s voice came out shaky but clear. “I love it. I love being Daddy’s Property. Even for a little while.” The words made her pussy clench around the buzzing plug, the humiliation sweet on her tongue. Mark helped her onto the edge of the futon, the wood cool against her thighs, then guided her onto all fours. He pulled the dress up and off her body, leaving her completely exposed, the gym stains already darkening further on her lower back and ass. From the shelf beside the stairs he took a long, thin wand with a small applicator tip. It looked like a high-end tattoo machine, but the ink was a special, safe temporary formula that would sit just under

His grip is firm. "Yeah, I know," he smirks, a glint in his eye that makes me uneasy. He has a dangerous energy about him, a simmering intensity that's both captivating and terrifying. His whole body is a canvas of art: black pants, a black shirt tucked in and rolled up to the elbows, revealing arms covered in intricate tattoos. Even his neck is inked. I’m slightly surprised; I hadn’t expected an artist to be so… heavily tattooed. "So, you and my brother Renzo, how did you two meet?" he asks, relaxing back into his seat, but the intensity in his gaze doesn't lessen.

Heat pooled between my thighs as I worked. I switched to a softer pencil for the intimate details the way his fingers dug into her flesh, the arch of her neck as she cried out, the moment of connection where their bodies met. I smudged the lines with my fingertip to create softness around the edges, making the pleasure look almost blurry, like memory or orgasm itself. My free hand slipped between my legs without thinking. I was soaked. I circled my clit slowly while I continued sketching, adding tiny details: the diamond lock necklace resting between her breasts, the faint bruises on her hips shaped like his fingerprints.

"Yeah, yeah, how many Eliot Lakes could there be? And besides, you could have just gone home. Nobody put a gun to your head and forced you to come with me." "And let you get the entire payday? Not bloody likely!" Rhys snorted. A bell jingled as Rusty pushed open the door and the pair entered the shop. The petite, black-haired woman behind the counter smiled. "Welcome to Kink Ink, gentlemen. What kind of ink did you have in mind?" "We're not actually in the market for a tattoo today, we were just looking for a little information," Rusty said, as a tall First Nation man pushed through the curtain leading to the back of the shop and stood beside the counter.