He slowly cut away her panties with the slender stiletto as she sighed with pleasure and twisted against the bonds, her eyes blindfolded. She was shaven, although not entirely, preferring a short, shaven strip running up from the chiseled slit between her legs.
He paused, and admired the view for a few moments. He then produced a bottle of warmed oil and spread it across her warm mound. The slippery fluid trickled warmly down, between her legs. He firmly worked the oil into her skin, fingertips brushing and teasing the swollen bud of her clitoris.
"Yes!" she cried, writhing against the ropes. "Don't leave me like this, fuck me!"
He didn't fuck her. She next became aware of a rhythmic, mechanical buzz, and felt a running, scratching sensation above her slit.
She jerked, already familiar with the sensation and the sound, but her firmly held her down.
"Don't want the lines to be crooked," he said, the mirth apparent in his voice.
"You bastard!" she practically screamed, feeling, but unable to see, the tattoo machine as it marked her most private area. She remained in a heightened state of arousal. If anything, her rage only amplified it.
He worked quickly, first lining, and then coloring the design. As he worked the color in, she ground her hips into his hand, forcing the brightly colored ink into herself.
Then came a moment, a long pause, as she lay there panting, almost growling. The vibrations and the needle had come so close to her most sensitive places, and left her frustrated and unfulfilled.
