Blackwork Garden
A winter of ink, and a mouth that keeps its promises.
Some people collect saints; I collect sins in black ink. Her name was Rosalyn.
⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content, rough consensual sex, explicit language, and adult themes (including oral/anal play and no-condom sex). For mature audiences (18+) only.
When I first saw Rosalyn, she had my boy Reggie clenched in the chair, jaw tight, chest shining with stencil gel. She was dragging the needle slow as a sermon—on purpose, I swear—inking his triplet daughters’ names over his heart: Ivy, Eira, and Joy. December girls, all three. Their names made three points around a smooth snowflake, frost-fine, like something you’d breathe on to see it melt.
“Cold heart,” Reggie had told her, trying to be brave. “They were sent to warm me up.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, not looking up, and the machine buzzed like a wasp with a destroyed nest.
Me? I wasn’t interested in Reggie’s poetry; it was the wasp-buzz of her needle, the clean lavender on her skin, and the way she leaned in that got me. I couldn’t take my eyes off Rosalyn.
She was all roses and thorns—inked vines curling her hips, a blackwork bloom on her shoulder opened when she leaned in. Long hair pinned up with a clip, a few strands falling like spilled coffee. Her hands were steady, her mouth soft, and the little crease between her brows made me think of focus and sin at the same time.
At one point she paused, glanced at me, and said, “You’ve gotta wait in the front. The way you keep staring is a distraction.”
She didn’t smile. I liked that.
Reluctantly, I relocated to the tiny lobby—two chairs, a ficus that had seen things, and a rack of flash books—while the door chime clinked and the machine’s hum faded behind the wall. I promised to stay put till she finished. I flipped through pages of skulls, swallows, saints, daggers; started half-considering a piece for myself if I ever drank too much or lost a bet. Maybe a small something where only the right person would see.
When Reggie finally shuffled out—sore, bandaged, getting the lecture on how not to catch an infection—wash with unscented soap, pat dry, thin layer of ointment— I drifted back to the doorway, gravity pulling me to Rosalyn. She’d stripped off her gloves and was cleaning the station. I kept worshipping her with my eyes until she felt it and turned.
“Okay, man, what’s your deal?” she said. “First time seeing a woman?”
“Like you?” I said. “Never. And I mean that in the best way.”
“I’m not your type.”
“I might not be in your league,” I said, “but you’re definitely my type.”
“You ready to go, playboy?” Reggie called, already halfway out. “I gotta get back to the hospital.” His girl had dropped his prenatal lottery ticket last night—triplets, all December girls—but they were keeping her a little longer for observation.
“Yeah, man,” I said, eyes still on Rosalyn. “Soon as I get this woman’s number.”
She leaned on the counter. “And I’m just going to give it to you… like that?”
“Nope. You’re not into easy,” I said. “You’re going to make me work. Hardest game of hard-to-get ever played. I’ll chase, I’ll bring candy and flowers—roses, obviously. You’ll put me through hell for ten digits. But I’m stubborn. I’ll wear you down. Either I’m calling you every night to say the craziest, sexiest things… or I’m calling from county because you were worth violating a restraining order for.”
Her eyes went wide, but the smile held. “What’s your name?”
“My boys call me Chance. Short for Christian.”
“Or short for ‘not a chance in hell,’” Reggie said. “Can we go?”
“I don’t know, Reg. From that smile, I like my chances. Can I at least get your name so we can get back to his baby mama and those girls?”
She thought about it. “Rosalyn. And that’s all you’re getting tonight. I’m not like other girls.”
“I know. I’m not looking for sugar and spice, Rosalyn. I’m looking for shadow and vice—and that’s you, isn’t it?”
I let the question hang a beat. “See you tomorrow.”
We left, and, true to my word, I came back the next night—just to set a note on a box of expensive chocolates that read, “For the artist of winter flowers.” No ask, no number. Eye contact, gift, gone.
Rosalyn kept me coming back. I think she liked the game—the pursuit, the honesty of someone who wanted her—and the lie that she wasn’t falling for it. She gave me her number one digit at a time—one Sharpied on a glove wrapper she “forgot” on the counter, another penciled in the margin of a flash book; I prayed she wasn’t scrambling them. By the time I dropped off a gold necklace with a black rose charm, I had all ten.
You’d think I’d call right then. But game deserves game. I made her wait—just long enough to catch her off guard—then called.
“Hello?”
“Do you know what I’ve been thinking about?”
“Who is this?”
“I want to know if you’ve ever been kissed everywhere the ink touches you.”
A beat. Then she had me. “Chance?”
“Inch by inch,” I said. “I want to taste every rose on your body.”
“That might take all night.”
“I’m up for it.”
“Are you? You sure?”
“My ink runs everywhere.”
“Do I have to keep imagining?”
Silence. I liked my odds.
The line clicked off, and an address popped up in my texts.
I won’t confess to how many traffic laws I bent getting there, but I made good time.
Her building was an old warehouse in the arts district on the far side of town—buzz-in entry, stairwell that smelled like rain and iron, elevator dead with an OUT OF ORDER sign that looked permanent. At her floor, a door painted with two angels and crossed swords—subtle Garden reference—let me know I was in the right place.
Rosalyn opened on my second knock. White robe. Damp hair. Lavender soap curling off her skin with steam.
She hooked two fingers in my shirt and pulled me into a kiss before I could say a word—soft mouth, dueling tongues, heat—and then dragged me inside like I was already hers.
The loft had an eye for ink: bone, ink-black, brass. High windows poured winter light across brick. Framed flash sheets lined one wall: roses, serpents, saints, swallows. A drafting table glowed like a small moon, scattered with charcoal studies of hands and mouths, needle diagrams pinned alongside healed-vs-fresh photo prints. Botanical plates leaned on a shelf beside anatomy books, zines, and a shadowbox of antique machines. Plants trailed like brushstrokes; a steel cart held bottles labeled in her neat print. On the mezzanine, a black-iron bed sat under a canopy like blown snow. Candles in glass jars, a record player spinning something low, lavender braided with cedar.
She led me up the steps with a glance over her shoulder, that almost-smile again. At the edge of the bed she turned.
“Inch by inch, right?” she murmured. “Everywhere the ink runs.”
The robe slid off her shoulders and fell to the floor—quiet thunder. She climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the duvet, hands lifting to gather her hair. Ink bloomed across her back: roses, vines, thorns, a blackwork garden.
“You might want to get started.”
I come up behind her, press in, slide her hair aside, and set my mouth at the nape first. A starting point in the labyrinth of ink—one quiet gap between two thorns. From her neck I move outward, slow and careful: over every rose bloom, riding each vine, letting my tongue catch on every stylized thorn. Her breath quickened; mine answered. My hands steadied on her hips, heat under my palms; as I traced lower, they drifted forward and up her front, holding her while I mapped her garden—inch by inch.
I reach the small of her back, where the garden’s roots dig into the curve of her ass. I reach around and fill my hands with her breasts—nipples hard—steadying her as I dip lower. My tongue parts the cleft of her cheeks and finds the tight, hidden rosebud of her ass. I seal my mouth there, flat and firm, and her whole body jolts—a sharp intake ripping from her throat.
“Fuck, Chance.”
My hand settles between her shoulder blades. I push and she lowers to her elbows so I can angle my mouth perfectly. I spread her with my thumbs and press my face into the heat. I don’t let up as we shift; I circle the tight ring with the tip of my tongue—slow, deliberate—tasting the dusky opening. I press harder, tongue a firm point seeking entry, and she arches, pushing back into me. Her fingers knot the duvet. I work her with my mouth, relentless and wet, until her breath becomes one long, pleading sound and I feel the tremor quake through her thighs.
“Everywhere the ink runs,” I murmur as I borrow my tongue deeper.
My hand rose and came down in a swift, sharp slap, the sound echoing through the room. Her body jolted forward, a shocked gasp escaping her lips.
“Oh!” she cried, her voice laced with both surprise and pleasure.
I didn’t wait for her to recover. My hand came down again, this time harder, the smack leaving a faint red imprint on her perfect ass, coloring the rose there its natural hue. She moaned, low and deep, her hips pushing back against me instinctively. The ring of her dark hole clenched my probing tongue upon impact.
“Yes.” She purred, “Can I have another?”
I obliged, delivering another sharp slap, then another, alternating between cheeks. Color bloomed across her ass like a fresh petal. Each strike elicited a delicious sound from her—a mix of pain and ecstasy that drove my tongue into a frenzy, her fingers clawing at the sheets, her sharp cries coming in sensual bursts.
When I finally stopped, my palm resting gently on the heated flesh I’d marked, she whimpered softly. “God, that was perfect.”
I pull my tongue away and kiss the spot I just struck. Her skin warms my lips, the sting subsiding into a slow, pleasurable ache. She shivered beneath my mouth, her body giving tiny jerks with each kiss, as if begging for more and scared that I might give it to her.
With that, I drag my wet mouth down, leaving a cool trail, and found the hot, slick center of her. Her cunt is soaked. I buried my face in her, my tongue plunging deep into her perfectly tight flower. She cried out, a raw, broken sound. I feasted from behind like a man starved, my tongue fucking her deep, then flattening to lap at her clit. My nose pressed against her ass, my world narrowing to the taste of her, the sound of her, the musk of her, and the way her body shook for me.
“You fucking animal,” she says. “Don’t you dare stop.”
She reached one hand back, pulling her own ass apart while rolling her hips up and down, each rotation slow and ending in a slick pop of motion.
I shift a hand up, rolling the pad of my thumb against her asshole before slipping it in, hooking her just so as I continue to ravage her cunt with my mouth. Rosalyn started to keen, a cry of ecstasy she didn’t know she had in her. Her insides convulsed around my tongue. She sprayed her release into my mouth. I cough and swallow, chin slick, riding the rush.
I didn’t let her come down. I guided her onto her back, her body boneless and pliant. She looked up at me, her eyes dark and glazed, her lips parted. I started to trace the ink on her front. Painting her body with my saliva and her release. Before long, I lowered my mouth to her breast, taking a hard nipple between my lips. The contrast was everything—the warm, wet suction of my mouth against the cool air from the window. I sucked hard, then grazed the peak with my teeth, and she gasped, her back arching off the bed.
I continue working her overstimulated pussy with one finger, then two. My mouth moved to her other breast, giving it the same treatment. My free hand palmed the tit I just abandoned, thumb rubbing over the wet nipple. I kissed my way down her sternum, my tongue tracing a small, hidden dagger inked there.
My oral conquest threatened to go lower again, but her hands come up, frame my face, and force me to look at her. Her gaze was pure fire.
“You wanted shadow and vice,” she breathed, her voice low and rough. “So give it to me. Fuck me, Chance. Raw. I want to feel you.”
“You’re sure?” My voice was gravel.
“I’m on the pill. I’m clean. I want your fucking dick in me. Now.”
Within moments, my shirt, pants, and underwear are gone—belt clinks, fabric thumps the floor. Flung to the farthest reaches of the room. Part of me wonders why they were still on me in the first place. I hooked the underside of her legs, and brought them up on my shoulders. Folding her as I positioned myself, the head of my cock pressing against her dripping entrance.
I grabbed a handful of her hair, a dominant play, and pulled as I pressed my hips in, going balls deep on the first thrust. She had no place to go, the only give being the mattress as I slammed home. She was so fucking wet, so warm, so tight. Her voice was stolen by the roughness of my first pass of her threshold.
“Is this what you wanted?” I growled. Grinding myself into her core.
Her eyes opened, fixed on mine, staring into my soul, “Harder.”
I pulled my shaft almost out and slammed down, then again, and again. Rinse and repeat, each time the walls consume the echo of flesh. I fist her hair; the rhythm turns storm‑hard. Losing myself in the Blackwork Garden that was Rosalyn.
“F... Fuck.. Me.” Her words were broken up by the hard blows her body was enduring. “Don’t... S... Stop... Oh God.”
I felt nails, digging in deep on my upper back, Rosalyn, ever the artist, tattooing me in deep red scratches. When I thought I had found her spot, I focused on it, pounding into her with a single-minded intensity.
“There,” she cried out. “Right fucking there!”
Her eyes crossed, her mouth opened into a silent scream. I watched her come apart, felt her cunt clench around my cock like a whirlpool of muscles and sensations that made me see all white. The feel of it, pushed me right into my own climax. I drove into her one last time, as deep as I could go, and came with a roar, my release pumping into her in hot, endless pulses.
Our mouths found each other, and we drank in our final moans with kisses laced with passion and raw energy. Rosalyn milked me with tiny clenches of her pussy and subtle shifting of her hips. I just pressed into the endless abyss of sensation and felt my soul being snatched piece by piece.
I collapsed on top of her, our bodies slick with sweat. Our hearts hammering against each other. She takes my weight, slides her legs from around my shoulders, and locks them behind my ass. Holding me inside her, where she could continue to do the devil’s work. Once our breathing calms and our pulses stop thumping in my ear, we listen to the record as the needle reaches the end of the groove.
“I think I’ve decided what tattoo I want to get,” I said once I was able to speak again.
“Oh?” Rosalyn answered, interest piqued.
“Yeah, ‘Rosalyn,’ right here.” I press a finger over my heart.
She laughs into my throat. “Cute. I don’t tattoo lovers.”
“Guess I’ll have to change your mind.”
“Guess you will.”
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In a winter-lit loft, Chance maps Rosalyn’s blackwork with his mouth before the night turns to shadow and vice. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #BlackworkGarden #TattooArtist #ConsentIsSexy #NSFW