ink 01
So this morning you wake to find me sitting upright in bed, leafing through a copy of Grey’s Anatomy I brought with me last night. You stretch your neck to see what I’m reading.
The technical drawings depict humans cleanly broken apart, carefully labelled, bloodless. I smile and wish you good morning, lean down and place a kiss where your black hair is mussed up from where you slept. You half-close your eyes, cat-like, and snuggle closer.
I stroke your hair. “You got me thinking about anatomy, with what you said about your studies. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind if I… painted you.”
“Like on a chaise?” you say, nipping my chest to emphasise the playful jab. You feel the bed shake when I chuckle.
“Like on your body. Paint where the organs all fit. I can’t visualise then like you can.”
You feel my gaze roam down your body. You’re not bashful. However you feel about yourself, you know my eyes will be bright with worship, loving by instinct everything they find. You let the duvet slip aside and lie back, affecting impatience. “I’ve got a busy day. You’d better hurry with your paint, then.”
I grin and lean down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then jump up to find my bag.
What follows is an exploration over chapters. “Where to begin?” I ask, to which you reply, “my stomach, of course.” “No,” I say, thoughtful. “Let’s work outward from your heart.” You think it’s cheesy, but I look so damn absorbed in my study of your chest that you let it pass.
The brush tickles and the ink is cold, but my non -drawing hand is warm where it rests on your flesh. The heart placed, I flip to the sections on the Digestive System and place my brush.
“No,” you say, taking my right hand in both of yours and guiding it an inch up from where it was. “My stomach is here.”
I lay down ink like it’s an act of reverence. Your stomach is rendered cut-away, with cross-hatch shading, showing its yawning emptiness. Beneath, your real stomach groans, stirred into action by the attention. Duodenum and small intestines bloom from the base, and we draw together, your surer hands providing gentle pressure to my exploring ones.
“So many folds,” I comment as we render your internal plumbing on the surface.
“Mhmm,” you agree. “It’s a long way down.”
You feel me become swiftly hard at the comment, pressing against your hip. With only a slight rock of your hips to let me know you noticed, you pull on my hands again. “Come on. Give my food a way out.”
Like a tree, your large intestine bursts into life, dwarfing the Labyrinth it borders. Ascending, traverse, descending. Low, rhythmic, liquid sounds come from within. I don’t know how my hand doesn’t shake when I come to transcribe your rectum. I draw a narrow outlet upon your mons.
“Reproductive system?” I say. You can see my pulse heavy at my throat. I have not yet lost my hardness.
“There’s no way for my food to come in,” you point out sweetly. You reach out a hand and stroke me with your fingertips, keeping me pent.
With two long strokes I trace your oesophagus, slightly kinked where it traverses the diaphragm. You smell the paint, and my desire, and your own.
“Done now?” you tease.
“No,” I say, tense. I set aside the brush with a clatter. “One last part. Sulcus terminalis. The back of your tongue.” I gasp as you squeeze me then continue your slow stroking. “Open your mouth, Rey.”
“Want to check how close your work is? My insides are far messier than your painting…”
“Just to look. I know touching would be… Ah… Fatal.”
“And yet you can barely stop yourself. As you wish. Aaaah~”
You can feel my already rapid pulse spike in your hand as you roll out your tongue. I look like God has just spoken to me: rapt and afraid. If you leaned forward right now you know I wouldn’t lean away, and you’d have me. Instead you angle your head, showing every plane of what you know is a perfect trap for me. Perhaps today will be the day?
It takes a lifetime for me to move. You think you see me coming closer, ready to commit my body to yours, to be destroyed and transmuted in a final act of worship. But instead I kiss your heart, and then your stomach, and trail kisses down. I slip from your hand and you angle your hips, knowing my new goal.
“Okay, silly prey, but after this you make me breakfast, okay? And stretch out those organs you just… Aaaah~”
My reply is not in words as I worship another part of your body.