The ink on my ribs is still fresh and the whiskey is hitting just right. Funny how a new tattoo makes you feel more like yourself than any relationship ever did. But I'm not thinking about the needle's sting tonight. I'm thinking about the way Tyrone's voice would go all soft and whiny when he wanted me to hold his pathetic little cock. The way he'd beg me to call him my 'good girl' while he came like a fountain. The real art isn't on my skin—it's in the memory of how completely I owned that man's pleasure. And the best part? He still thinks about it. Every. Single. Day.