Maybe it’s the posture. She shifts again in the oddly-shaped chair. It still feels wrong, what should be the headrest presses against her breasts, and the back forces her legs apart. She remembers being more comfortable the last time.

Beside her he waits patiently, his intent unreadable behind his mask. Nearby is a tray of tools that she saw once when she arrived and from which she has averted her eyes ever since.

He clears his throat. “You need to take your pants off.”

She sighs. He’d come recommended, a friend of hers had told her that he was both a master with his hands, and discreet. The friend hadn’t mentioned his bedside manner, and maybe there was a reason for that.

She strips. Her baggy cargo pants are her armour and her blanket, a shield against the outside. Here, they’re merely in the way. She’s worn the requested panties, the dangling strings tickling her skin, bringing it to life.

She isn’t a virgin, but this is more than she’s dared before. She reminds herself that she chose this – no, worse, she’s paying for this.

He steps forward, taking her measure. He’s seen this all before, back when he told her his price. His fingers prod into her flesh, testing her firmness, her resistance. He unwraps her carefully, baring her. She shivers.

“Are you ready?” he asks, nonchalant.

She hears the snap of rubber behind her. She doesn’t need to imagine any more, it’s happening for real.

At first, there is nothing, only the mundane noises of a man readying himself. And then a tinny, high-pitched whine and a stabbing pain. She moans, but she rides it out. His eyebrow rises behind the mask, an implicit question. She urges him on.

He enters her again, and it is agony. She thrusts into the chair, the leather smooth and warm against her, against her sex. This time he doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t hold back. He’s seen it all before.

Once upon a time, when she was young and stupid, she thought she could do the same herself with a lighter and a broken pen. It was easy, she’d told herself, it just took patience and a steady hand. But at the moment she broke the skin, she realized how wrong she’d been, and how unprepared. She’d given up, though a pale blue dot had been left ever since as a reminder.

A fresh lance of agony shatters the memory. Distraction will not protect her any more now than it did then. Her body has a mind of its own, and an instinct honed over generations screams at her to run, to save herself from the pain.

But there is another part of her, deeper than instinct, that embraces it.

His work leaves a trail of fire, piercing beneath her skin. Black fluid spreads into her, mixing with her blood. She holds back the urge to thrash, to cry, to say enough. It is only an urge, her want is greater, and she wants this. She wants it all.

She breathes, and lets it in.

And then – the pain breaks. It’s not that it stops, or even dissipates. Instead, she has risen to its level, absorbed it. Each trace of his hand up and down her waist brings fresh fire to her skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she moves with it, letting the sensation guide her. The room’s stale fluorescent glow becomes warmer, brighter. Her head is blissfully light.

She rocks forward to her own internal rhythm, the leather creaking beneath her. She bites her lip, holding back a moan. Something like a hum still escapes.

A gloved hand touches her thigh.

“Hold still,” he says, “You don’t want me to ruin this, do you?”

He knows. He’s seen it all before His eyes twinkle, the mask shifts and betrays his smile. Weakly, she smiles back.

Time passes. The burning stops, fades to a slow ache, and she hears him make a satisfied grunt. He reaches for a mirror from the table and tilts it so that she can see.

“I thought you might like to see what we’ve got so far. We’ll finish the colour and shading in a couple of weeks, once you’ve had time to heal.”

He says something else, something about bandages and loose-fitting clothes. She knows the procedure. She leans in to see the reflection, to see how he’s marked her.

A line of climbing ivy, reaching from her ribcage to the swell of her hip. The leaves, inked in delicate detail, the veins barely visible above her red and swollen skin. They bend and flutter as she stretches.

She sees now, there is beauty in the pain.

And she will return.