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Pakunoda is a silent, staid creature, her every expression unreadable and chilled with something that isn’t necessarily cold – no, it’s something distant, something calm and languorous and detached, and it shows all the more in the cool swipe of her stare across the room before finding Machi by the long table in the corner.
Machi likes her right away. It’s unquestionable and without the slightest hesitation. She likes her shape, her presence, her gaze; and this isn’t the first time she’s seen her, of course not, but there’s always something new that’s revealed about her clients when she sees them like this, lit up only by the glow of one hundred candles, coming here for something that only Machi herself can give them.
Pakunoda gives a slow blink, stroking her hair out of her eyes with the backs of her fingers. “I didn’t know you work in the dark.”
Her voice is dark and smooth, smoke-like. Machi’s eyes flash in the shadows at the sound of it. “I prefer to work by candlelight,” she says. “The others found it unreasonable at first, but I always get the job done.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Machi looks at her, wanting to smile. “That’s a new one. The others did.”
“Even the boss?”
Machi watches the woman cross the room, her high heels clicking softly along the floor. “The boss was much more subtle about it,” she says, eyes flitting to Pakunoda’s slim waist as she walks. “Just slight surprise, no crass commentary. But I can’t say the same for Uvo.”
Pakunoda gives a light hum of what Machi thinks might be a laugh. “Uvo must have been pleasantly surprised, in that case.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t call anything about Uvo ‘pleasant.’”
That draws a real laugh out of Pakunoda, albeit a quiet one, breathy around its perimeters. At the sound of it, Machi runs her fingers over the slender needle atop the table, delicately touching the sharp point of it with a fingertip. “First question,” she says, the acoustics of the near-empty room sending her voice echoing easily from one side to the other. “Have you ever gotten a tattoo before?”
“I haven’t.”
“Second question. How’s your pain tolerance?”
In the glow of the many candles, Machi sees Pakunoda’s lips turn up in a faint, vague smile. She suddenly feels the need to clarify. “It may seem obvious enough, but we can’t have anyone who whimpers at a needle in the Troupe. This is more or less a test of your own convictions against pain.” Idly, she re-sterilizes the needle with a quick swipe of a cotton bud soaked in cold alcohol. “Though I should really call it one of many tests.”
“Mm. That was the general idea I’d assumed beforehand.”
“Oh, good. So you’re a smart one.”
Pakunoda doesn’t assess or deny it, only comes closer to where Machi sits until she’s right in front of the table, standing tall and unruffled. She reminds Machi of some regal, pretty bird – a crane? A dove?
“Another question,” Machi says, staring at the woman’s long throat. “How are you with trusting others?”
Pakunoda’s eyes are on her, steady and unyielding. “I only trust those who give me ample reason to.”
“That’s a decent mantra to live by.” Machi meets her gaze with a noncommittal, lidded one of her own. “So would you see yourself trusting me?”
Pakunoda hums again. “It would be in my best interests to, since we’re to be working together in the future. But I err on the side of caution nevertheless.”
“Not bad.” Machi crosses her legs and sets her elbow atop the table, studying Pakunoda’s calm, unmoved expression. And then, “What would you say to my own personal test of trust, then?”
Pakunoda’s eyebrow tilts up in a light, pensive lift. “It depends on your conditions. What are they?”
“Just as I prefer working in candlelight,” Machi says quietly, “I also prefer working on those who are wearing as little clothing as possible.”
She waits to see if Pakunoda’s expression changes; even a slight dent in it could spell out trouble. But all she gets is a lidding of the woman’s eyes and a mild nod of her head, her fingertips already touching at the topmost button of her blouse. Machi can’t help but be at least a little impressed, but she keeps her expression still and studious, making an effort to pitch in a little hint of boredom around the slope of her mouth to amp it up further. (Though it’s a bit of a struggle to remain poker-faced when Pakunoda’s nimble fingers undo each button of her blouse until it’s loose, and there’s nothing underneath, only fresh, smooth skin, her breasts full and round, the candlelight a warm, fiery flush along her bare skin.)
“So you performed this ‘test’ even with the others?” Pakunoda says, letting the blouse fall to the floor at her feet.
Machi takes a deep breath, keeps it internalized so that the rise and fall of her chest is as subtle as possible. “Unfortunately,” she says, her voice a flat line. “There aren’t many people in the world I want to see without clothes on.”
“You’re looking at me, however.”
Machi takes in another deep breath, holds it, keeps her gaze fixed on Pakunoda who only steps out of her skirt with an unfazed grace that leaves yet another dent in Machi’s stone-cold resilience. The woman has legs for miles, strong, her thighs thick and the taper of her hips a deep outwards bend like the curve of an hourglass. Machi uncrosses her legs, crosses them the other way, runs her tongue hard against the back of her teeth to keep her mouth firmly shut.
“Is this suitable?” Pakunoda asks, naked save for the thin, slinky black of her underwear, her face relaxed and her ample chest rising and falling in easy breaths.
Machi looks down at the table under the guise of surveying her instruments. “Do you feel it’s suitable?” she asks, her voice mild and soft.
“It would be of no issue to me to take off the rest if that’s what you want out of me. I have nothing to hide.”
Machi’s stomach tightens, but the nod of her head is small and subtle, ever unfettered on the outside even as she burns and twitches on the inside. “Then be my guest. This is your test, after all.”
Out the corner of her eye, she sees Pakunoda’s fingertips slip beneath the thin band of her underwear and ease them down her legs, bending down in a fluid arc until they’re off and set atop the rest of her discarded clothing. “Alright,” she says in that voice like smoke, like the same shadows that dance across her naked body as Machi looks back up at her.
Good, Machi thinks, the thought a hot puff of breath that she keeps bitten back. Very, very good.
“So,” she says instead, “any idea where you want it? If this were any other tattoo, I’d give you a rundown of the most painful places on the body to get one, but, well. Going back to the first point I made about pain tolerance…”
“I had a couple ideas in mind,” Pakunoda says, approaching the table.
“Yeah? Pitch me your favorite.”
“I was thinking the inner thigh.”
Machi taps her fingernails against the tabletop. Her stomach feels hot. “That’s a very sensitive area.”
“I’m aware.” Pakunoda sits atop the table, golden like a star. “I can handle it.”
“I sure hope you can.” Machi scoots her chair closer to the table as Pakunoda slowly lies down. “Otherwise you won’t last two days in this place.”
Neither speaks for a long time as Machi goes about preparing the needle. She feels Pakunoda’s sleepy eyes on her, silent yet watchful, passive yet searching. Machi is vaguely aware of how her fingers are shaking the barest bit and prays to the heavens that she won’t fuck up on the ink; the worst trait in the world to possess with this sort of job is, after all, a tremulous hand.
“Which leg?” she asks, her voice hoarse and strange, sounding like someone else’s.
Pakunoda spreads her legs a few inches. Machi holds her breath. “Left.”
“Inner thigh, yeah?”
“Mm.”
And Machi thinks wow as she watches Pakunoda relax, one leg open to expose the bare, tender skin of her thigh. Machi’s eyes dance heatedly to the soft space between the woman’s hips before looking back at the skin she’s supposed to be concentrating on; when Pakunoda notices her shifting gaze and does nothing but open her leg a fraction wider, Machi nearly has to set the needle down and put the whole thing off until her head stops spinning. But she forces the trembling of her fingers to still, her poker face rooted in place as she leans in and goes to work.
Pakunoda, as it turns out, is a good sport beneath the needle. The only outward signs of pain are the slight twitching of her thigh and a short, soft hiss between her teeth when Machi gets to a particularly sensitive spot. Without thinking, Machi hushes her with a soft purr, thighs clenching together as she feels her body heat rising, wet and aching between her legs every time Pakunoda breathes a certain way.
The two scarcely talk the entire time, only a few quiet scraps of almost-conversation here and there that never go anywhere further. Machi is okay with that; just being silent is nice, not having to fill the space between them with noise. (Besides, the closer she leans in to Pakunoda’s body under the pretense of getting a better look at her work, the more Machi feels as though her mouth is a hungry thing that no longer functions to create words, only wanting to kiss at the skin she’s stitching with dark ink, only wanting to draw her tongue along the other woman’s thigh until finding that hot, special place so unabashedly bared to her now.)
“You’re holding up well,” Machi says for no reason at all, anything to keep her mouth busy. “I’ve barely even seen you wince.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Mm, maybe a little. But then again…” Machi’s fingertips stroke softly at the skin she’s just inked, watching with warm eyes as it starts to redden and swell from the touch of the needle. “You give off an air of being able to hold your own,” she murmurs. “I like that.”
It’s a risk, admitting this much to someone she barely knows, but Pakunoda accepts it silently, secretly, with little more than a dulcet lift at the corner of her sleek mouth.
After another long stretch of silence, Machi sets the needle down and surveys her work. “There we go,” she says, her belly warm and heart pounding. “All done.”
Pakunoda makes a small, thoughtful sound before lifting herself up on one elbow and looking down at the tattoo. Machi revels in the slight widening of the woman’s eyes, the subtle flash of satisfaction that graces the otherwise fixed, calm expression.
“You chose a good spot,” Machi says, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs; she can feel how wet she is just from the subtle switch in position. “It suits you,” she goes on. “The men, they always want theirs placed somewhere so obvious…their back, their shoulder, maybe an upper arm if they’re feeling creative. It’s obnoxious, save for the boss.” She taps her fingernails against the tabletop, feeling shaky and overheated. “Yours is probably my favorite.”
Pakunoda shifts on the table, legs swinging softly around to dangle at the edge; they’re so long that her toes touch the floor even while sitting upright. And then, quietly, she says, “You’re more talkative than I expected.”
Machi feels her face heat up. Her eyes flit down the floor. “It’s not typical of me. I wouldn’t get too used to it if I were you.”
“I like it,” Pakunoda says, her voice like a sigh as she stands up. “I could probably get used to it, if you let me.”
Machi watches her every movement, toes curling tight in her boots as Pakunoda steps closer toward her, her face soft and expectant. One hundred tiny flames blink across the woman’s naked body in a wild golden dance. The bare swell of her chest is so, so close as Pakunoda leans down.
And against all dwindling remains of self-control, Machi leans in to meet her.
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