The alarm on my phone screamed at 7:00 a.m., insistent, indignant, as if it could sense how thoroughly I’d trashed my sleep schedule. My first waking thought wasn’t the usual dread of calls and litigation, but a low, throbbing desire to get fucked and inked and pierced. I thumbed the alarm off, rolled over, and found myself cupping my own breast, thumb brushing the nipple through the pajama top. Even in my half-sleep haze, I pictured a barbell through the tip. The thought made me jolt, but not with fear. It was more like anticipation.

Old habit: check the calendar. It was a wall of blocks, color-coded for urgency. 9:00 a.m.— call with the client; 11:00—review deck for partnership committee; 1:30—offsite lunch with the bank’s general counsel; 3:00—junior associates’ evaluations. Not one of those blocks even tickled the dopamine receptors. I stared at them for a full minute, then held down the power button and let the phone go black. When I came up for air, the world felt glassy and slightly unreal, like my brain had missed a firmware update overnight.

I texted Jay, my assistant, while still sprawled in bed.

Hey. Woke up with food poisoning. Cancel everything today, will reschedule when I’m not dying. Hold all calls, forward to my email, urgent only.

He responded in under five seconds: “Oh no! Rest up. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll clear your day.” A parade of concern emojis.

“Perfect,” I said out loud, though I hadn’t even typed it.

Next: web browser. “High-end body modification studios downtown.” The top three hits were bro-y, tin-ceilinged shops with punny names and Yelp reviews from finance bros. Then there was Metamorphosis: minimal site, white-on-black theme, testimonials from magazine editors and startup founders, not a single tattoo parlor cliche. Their FAQ read like a legal brief, dense with disclaimers, references to “executive privacy,” and a special line: “For the discreet professional, we offer closed-door services and NDAs upon request.”

I booked a same-day “consultation and session,” selected the “body jewelry and advanced modification” package, and put in my real name. I didn’t even flinch at the upcharge for rush scheduling or “Premium Confidentiality Option.” It felt like buying a plane ticket out of a burning building.

I had just enough time to shower and power dress. I picked out a black silk blouse, no bra, and a pencil skirt with just enough give to let me spread my legs wide if needed. The thought made me warm and slick. I laughed at myself, half-delirious, and dabbed on makeup with the heavy hand of someone prepping for a deposition, not a midday piercing.

Metamorphosis took up the entire top floor of a new glass tower in SoMa, just two blocks from my own office. The elevator doors opened into a lobby so clean I could smell antiseptic. No tacky posters, no metal music, just a small, live-edge desk and a lit-up glass wall, behind which lay a gallery of tattoo flash sheets displayed like a modern art exhibit.

The receptionist was a young man, androgynous, in a slate-grey uniform. His neck was inked with a lacework of tiny black dots, and his septum was threaded with a platinum ring. He didn’t look up from his iPad.

“Ms. Lamo, you’re early,” he said, tapping once to summon my entire intake form to the screen. “Vex will see you in just a moment. May I get you anything? Coffee? LaCroix? Valium?”

I almost snorted, then realized he was being serious.

“LaCroix, please. Lime if you have it.”

He slid a can across the desk with clinical precision, then turned back to his screen. I sipped, feeling the carbonation bite at the back of my throat.

A door at the end of the hall hissed open. “Heidi?” The voice was low, warm, neither pushing nor needy. The woman who emerged was at least six feet tall, black hair shorn on one side and falling in a perfect curtain on the other. Sleeves rolled to the elbow revealed full-sleeve tattoos on both arms, each more intricate than the last (floral bands, geometric mazes, a tiny Japanese kanji at her wrist). I recognized the style: precise with nothing accidental.

She eyed me up and down, then smiled. “I’m Vex. Let’s get you settled.”

I followed her down a corridor, each step echoing on the marble. “We’ve got you for ‘advanced modification, client-directed.’ Is there a specific look or feel you’re after?”

I found my voice. “Honestly, I’m open. Nipple piercings, definitely. Maybe clit or hood. If we have time for ink, I want something visible, but nothing that says ‘midlife crisis.’ And—”

“And you don’t want anyone knowing unless you want them to,” Vex finished for me, still smiling. “Half my clients are C-suite. We live to serve.”

She let me into a private room lined with medical-grade cabinets. A massage table covered in disposable sheets. A small, stainless tray with sealed needles, clamps, and shining rods laid out like surgical instruments. A faint smell of alcohol, nothing else. The air was freezing.

“Top off, if you’re ready,” she said, flicking on a ring light above the table. “You can leave the skirt. Or not, up to you.”

I shrugged off the blouse, letting it slide to the floor. For a split second I felt exposed, but the sensation curdled into excitement instead of shame. My nipples peaked hard in the cold, skin blushing from the air.

Vex washed her hands, snapped on gloves, and knelt to eye level with my chest. “Gorgeous breasts, by the way. Most people lie on their intake. Yours are… a gift.”

“Thanks?” I said. I wanted her to touch me, and she did, not in a sexual way but with total confidence, cupping each breast, rolling the tissue to find the perfect spot for the jewelry. She marked my nipples with a surgical pen: two small, blue dots, perfectly even. She stood back to let me check in the mirror.

“Good placement?” she asked.

“Perfect,” I said, meaning it.

She had me lie down, arms behind my head. “The first one’s always the weirdest. Deep breath, and…”

The clamp bit down hard on my left nipple. I tensed, expecting the pain, but the anticipation was worse. Vex lined up the needle, counted down, and pushed it through. The sensation was a bolt of fire, but the pain spun itself into a thread of pleasure that lingered even as she inserted the barbell and clicked the end cap on.

“Shit,” I breathed.

“That’s the endorphins. The second one’s a breeze.”

She swapped sides, repeating the procedure. The second needle sent a full-body shudder through me, electric and raw, but I was wet and needy in a way that had nothing to do with pain. I wanted more.

Vex set down the tools, peeled off her gloves, and let me sit up. “Take a look,” she said.

In the mirror, my nipples looked obscene, beautiful—perfectly centered bars of matte titanium, dark against my pale skin. They were already hardening around the new metal, the tips red and swollen.

“Any dizziness?” she asked.

“Just the opposite,” I said. “I could run a marathon right now.”

She laughed. “You’re a natural. Want to keep going?”

I did. “Clit. Or hood. I don’t actually know the difference.”

She nodded, professional as a dentist. “It depends on anatomy. I’ll take a look and recommend what’ll heal best. Bottoms off, please.”

I wiggled the skirt down my hips, then realized I was slick with arousal. I blushed, but Vex didn’t react except to pull on fresh gloves and a new mask.

She positioned my legs in the stirrups, just like at the gyno. Her fingers were gentle but unambiguous as she parted my lips and inspected my clit. “Nice structure. Good definition. We’ll do a vertical hood, high gauge. Heals fast and enhances sensation. Do you masturbate often?”

I almost lied, but caught myself. “Yes. Multiple times a day.”

She winked. “You’ll love this then. You ready?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

She applied topical anesthetic, waited a minute, then lined up the clamp. The pressure was odd, a pinch, then release. The needle punched through, and my whole body arched off the table, but it wasn’t pain that made me do it. It was pleasure, hot and spiking from my pelvis up my spine.

I moaned. Out loud. No way to pass it off as anything else.

Vex set the jewelry against my clit: another small bar, topped with two glimmering black opals. She dabbed away the blood with a cotton pad, then patted my thigh. “All done. Happens all the time, by the way. It’s like flipping a switch for some people.”

She helped me sit up, and the first movement sent a jolt of sensation straight to my pussy. I could feel the weight and chill of the metal, the ring shifting every time I clenched. My nipples burned, in the best possible way.

Vex gave me a printout with aftercare instructions, then put a hand on my shoulder. “You did amazing. Do you want to take a look at some flash while you’re here? We’ve got a new collection. Really bold, but classy.”

“Please,” I said, and I meant it. I didn’t even want to leave.

She led me back into the gallery, this time gesturing for the receptionist to follow. He brought a binder thick with custom tattoo concepts, all designed by in-house artists. Some were delicate (tiny snakes, arrows, constellations), but I gravitated toward the wild, the vivid, the kind of work you could only pull off with perfect skin and a total disregard for convention.

I picked out a snake, mid-strike, for the outside of my thigh. An ornate, swirling pattern to frame my new nipple bars—something that would peek out from a V-neck if I ever let myself wear one. And, on a whim, a small lock for my lower back, just above the tailbone.

“We can start on the thigh or the chest,” Vex said, businesslike. “I have an opening Thursday at ten. Or we could do a late-night session, if that’s more your vibe.”

“Do both,” I said, “as soon as possible. I’ll clear my schedule.”

She scribbled down the appointment. “You’re going to love the lock, too. It’s sexy as fuck.”

On the elevator ride down, my phone buzzed with calendar reminders: “Urgent—client callback.” “M&A prep due EOD.” “Lunch with General Counsel.” I flicked them away with a thumb, feeling nothing but contempt for the person who used to care about them.

In my apartment, I stripped off everything and stood in front of the mirror. My breasts looked obscene—both pierced, the bars glinting in the afternoon light, nipples so erect they threatened to punch through skin. My pussy was red and a little swollen, but the hood piercing made my clit look hyper-defined, as if it were always waiting for touch.

I let my fingers trail across one nipple, testing the feel. It was tender, but the pain was heady, intoxicating. I tweaked it, and the other, then slipped my hand down between my legs. The new piercing was a foreign body, but not in the way I’d feared. It felt like an upgrade. My own flesh, but more.

I started slow, exploring. My fingers glided over the bar, bumping the ends, each pass sending a ripple of sensation that dwarfed anything I’d ever felt before. I was wet, so wet I could hear it when I pushed inside. I teased the ring, and it buzzed my clit in a way that made my eyes roll back. I pictured Vex, tall and assured, the way she’d smiled as she marked my nipples. I pictured the tattoo needle, the whine of it, the pain, the certainty that I’d be transformed again.

I fingered myself hard, in quick, desperate circles, and came in less than a minute. The orgasm was sharp, almost mean. I lay back on my own carpet, panting, unable to stop touching the new jewelry.

I spent the rest of the day alternating between euphoria and aftershocks. I opened my laptop and rescheduled every work appointment for the next week, citing “personal matters.” I answered Jay’s check-ins with curt, one-word responses, not even pretending to care. It was the first time in my life I’d ever stood up a client and felt not an ounce of guilt.

At sunset, I made myself a Negroni and watched the city lights flicker to life. I caught my own reflection in the glass, shirtless, the new metal glinting off my nipples. I felt powerful. Dangerous.

Just as I finished the drink, my phone buzzed with a new notification from The Algorithm:

Steve Mitchell has used Super Match to connect with you!

It was the same as last time, except the notification banner was now a lurid, animated gold. I grinned, expecting to roll my eyes and delete it, but the app wouldn’t let me swipe it away. Instead, the screen froze, then pixelated, the colors bleeding and recombining until my own profile appeared.

But it wasn’t mine, not exactly. My headshot was the same, but my blouse was open, the new piercings barely hidden beneath the silk. The bio had changed, too:

“Corporate litigator. Perfectly disciplined. Pierced, soon to be inked. Addicted to the edge. Ask about my new jewelry, or my tattoo appointment next week. Always down for anal, and can cum just from deepthroating.”

I read the text three times, heart pounding, each line drilling itself into my self-image. I didn’t remember typing any of that, but it felt… right. I must have.

I scrolled down, saw a new series of photos—women like me, all high-powered, all tattooed, some smiling through the fresh redness of new piercings. There was even a testimonial from “a fellow litigator,” raving about Vex’s “bedside manner” and “ability to unlock hidden facets.”

The direct message from Steve was waiting:

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it. Love the look. We should compare upgrades sometime. Bet you’d look even better with my cock down your throat.”

Instead of revulsion, I felt a buzz of arousal. But no, he was gross.

I ignored the message, rolling the new barbell between thumb and finger. I was already thinking of what else I wanted pierced, what other tattoo would make the old me gasp.

I set the phone aside, curled up naked on the couch, and let the city watch as I fingered myself again, this time slow and deliberate, savoring every click of jewelry and every electric spike of pleasure.

I wondered what I would do to myself next, and found I couldn’t wait to find out.