Skip navigation

Tag Archives: tattoo

We step through the door to my apartment. Or rather, she steps–I get pushed.

I stumble forward, but catch myself and turn to face her. She is already pulling her shirt off. She wears no bra, her small breasts tipped by perky, chocolate brown nipples, already hardening. She has no visible tan lines, until she pushes her jeans down around her hips–the outline of a bikini bottom stands out starkly against her otherwise dark skin.

I don’t wait any longer. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, growling in the back of my throat as I kiss her. She purrs appreciatively, and I feel her dancing, trying to wiggle her jeans past her knees. She is unsuccessful. I kick my shoes off and lift my foot, hook her waistband with my toe, and push it down toward her ankles. She steps out.

She pulls her head back. “Thanks.” Very casual.

I shrug. “No problem.” Also casual.

Then I lift her by the waist, my hands on her bare ass, and carry her to my couch. She purrs again and kisses me fiercely, her tongue driving past my lips. I growl again, and bite at her tongue and lower lip. I have to watch my step out of the corner of my eye, but we make it to my couch. I turn and sit, forcing her into a sitting position in my lap.

She leans back and wraps her arms around my neck. “How much time to we have?”

“A little over an hour,” I answer. “She won’t be home until probably 10:30, and she’ll call on her way, but we should play it safe.”

She nods and leans forward, pressing her lips to mine again. She whispers against me, “I’ve never fucked a married guy before.”

I turn my face slightly, kissing at her jaw. “It’s just like fucking a single guy, just without the bullshit baggage.” I bite down on her sternomastoid, hard enough I feel the muscle pop a little under my canine. She jumps and yelps, then moans. She grinds her pelvis against me, and I suspect she’s soaked my shorts, but I don’t fucking care.

She does, though. “Why are you still wearing pants?” she asks, loudly and with a touch of annoyance.

“Because you haven’t taken them off yet,” I answer into her collar. I bite at the bone, at the tattoo there, then kiss it by way of apology.

“I can fix that,” she says simply. Without warning, she falls back, her bare chest sliding quickly down my shirt. Skilled fingers unzip and open my fly. I lift my hips, and she pulls the waistline down, freeing me. I hear her growl as she dips her head, wrapping her lips around the tip of my cock. She runs her hands up my stomach and chest, using only her mouth to lift me up. I tense my pelvic muscles, forcing my member to attention and helping her position her head, and she drops down, taking me fully into her mouth. The head of my cock practically slams into the back of her throat. She coughs a little, and pulls her head back again. She bobs quickly, rotating her chin to the left and right with each stroke.

I groan as I lean back into my couch. I take in the sensation of a skilled mouth working my shaft. I watch her movements, studying her figure for the second time. I trace her tattoos with my eyes. The reds and yellows stand out against her dark skin.

Without warning, my mind begins to wander. I shiver, and take a deep breath.

“Oh shit,” I mutter, forcing a tone of concern.

She pauses and looks up at me. “What?”

“I just realized, I forgot to send a really important document to a colleague today,” I say, glancing to my computer. “Shit, shit, shit. I have to do that right now.”

“Right now?” she asks plaintively.

“Fuck… Yeah, right now,” I answer. I look back at her. She looks terribly confused, and I catch on to why. “Oh no, I don’t want you to leave or anything. I just need about five minutes to send this. It’s really, really important.”

She is visibly relieved. “Okay, good.” She plants a kiss on the tip of my dick, then leans back and stands, stretching lithely, forcing her hips forward. Her pussy is eye-level with me, covered by a well groomed mound of dark hair. Her lips are parted invitingly, and clearly wet. I barely refrain from groaning.

“Thanks for understanding, it’ll be quick,” I say reassuringly, and stand beside her. I kick off my shorts and boxers, and pull my shirt off as I walk to my computer. I sit nude at my home office, and smirk at her. “However. You should absolutely not stop what you were doing.”

“Oh, you think so?” she answers, clearly feigning offense. I just smirk and lean back in my chair. I spread my legs and grasp my cock, giving it a few light strokes as I open my browser. I hear her step toward me, and in my periphery I can see her drop to her knees and move beneath my desk. I remove my hand, and she quickly replaces it with her own. I look at my monitor, paying as much attention as I can spare, but her mouth quickly envelopes me, and the back of her throat presses against me. I gasp.

I open WordPress, and begin to type:

For some reason, whilst receiving a blowjob, I thought of you.

I don’t really have a type. I just like women, and certain men. However, I confess a greater than average appreciation for body modification, particularly tattoos, and anyone who dresses in what can be considered an “alternative” or punk style. I myself tend to favor simple shorts and t-shirts because I don’t think the look favors me, but man, do I love a woman in torn jeans and leather jackets, especially when their tattoos peek over their collar and through the holes in their stockings.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway. This occurred extremely recently. Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————————–

I am no stranger to pain. I have been injured more times than I can count, from fighting, from falling, from fucking. It’s not a difficult thing to cope with pain. You just have to accept that something hurts and move forward.

I tell myself this as the needle moves through my flesh.

Anyone who says getting tattooed doesn’t hurt is either a liar, or a braggart.

“How are you doing?” the artist asks me. She is hunched forward over my arm, tracing the stencil she placed on my arm over four hours ago. That’s a long time to sit still and let another human being carve in your flesh.

“Not bad,” I answer casually. “You know, considering you’ve stabbed me about three hundred and sixty thousand times.”

She smiles and laughs, both slightly delayed as she focuses on her work. “That many?”

“Quick math,” I answer. “Fifteen hundred revolutions per minute, times sixty minutes in an hour, times four hours. Three hundred and sixty thousand stabs.”

“That’s what you get when you go with a sleeve,” she says matter-of-factly.

“The first three hours were a breeze,” I respond, perhaps more defensively than I intended. “I just need to get my second wind is all.”

She pauses to wipe ink and blood from my arm. “Almost done with the outline. Just need to go over the elbow. You ready for this?”

I shrug. “How bad can it be?”

She smirks and pats my chest. “That’s the spirit. Move closer.” I shift on the bed, and she applies vaseline to the stencil. She bends forward. I hear the tattoo gun buzz like an angry hornet. She pushes it against my elbow.

Wooooooooooooooooow that fucking hurts.

I can’t help but breathe in sharply through my teeth. Not for long, but loudly enough it’s noticeable. She laughs again and says, “Yeah, you fucking love it, don’t you bitch!”

I struggle not to move as I laugh with her, not wanting to disturb the canvas that is my tender funny bone. “Fuck yes. Bring it on mistress.”

She keeps cutting through my elbow. “Yeah, fucking take it,” she says through clenched teeth, her voice dusky, almost whispering.

Something about her tone of voice, the aggression, the word choice, makes something in me stir. I glance down at her. I have admired her tattoos since I first met her, and I find myself admiring them again. Not only for their form, but for how they accentuate the curves of her body. Her well defined triceps stand out a bit more against the bright reds and yellows, contrasting with her deep tan. The slope of her shoulder going into her neck. The curve of her cleavage below her tank top. Fortunately, she is too absorbed in her work to notice my attention, so I simply don’t bother to restrain it. I study her face, her body, her movements, and it helps take my focus from my elbow.

Unfortunately, it’s also really turning me on. I feel myself harden uncomfortably against my zipper, and I deeply regret choosing not to wear boxers today, both for the discomfort, and how obvious it is without the extra layer. I silently pray she won’t notice.

The gun turns off, and she wipes at my elbow. “There we go.”

She is quiet for a moment, then she unsuccessfully stifles a laugh. “Well. Hello sailor.”

Shit.

I try to play it off. “Heh… yeah, sorry. Guess I couldn’t help myself. The whole thing just gets to me.”

“I don’t think that’s how nerves are supposed to be connected,” she says teasingly.

“Hey, you never know what works for some people,” I respond, playfully terse. I grin at her, and she returns the smile. Her eyes are a deep brown, and they sparkle in the ample lighting of the parlor.

An hour and a half later, and a third of my tattoo is colored in. She bandages and wraps my arm, and I rebook a month in advance to have the work finished. We stand in front of her shop, sharing a cigarette.

“Thanks again for fitting me in today,” I say as I exhale a cloud of smoke. “It’s gonna look great when it’s finished.” I pass her the cigarette.

“My pleasure,” she answers, and takes a deep pull. “Maybe next time you’ll control yourself a bit more.” It’s an admonishment, but I hear the teasing tone, and she grins playfully.

“Maybe,” I say noncomittally. “Maybe not. We’ll just have to see.”

She smiles. “I hope we will.” She winks at me and flicks the cigarette into the street. “Gotta get back to it. See ya later.” She turns to the door.

“Hey,” I call after her. She turns her head toward me. “Mind if I give you a call sometime?”

She smirks again. “You’ve got my card.” And she goes inside, closing the door behind her.

I blink in confusion and check my pockets. Sure enough, in my back left pocket is a business card with her name and business number on it. Scrawled across the bottom is her cell phone number. I don’t remember putting it there.

I deposit it safely in my wallet. The movement sends a twinge of pain through my elbow, but the pain is less pronounced. Almost promising. I smile, and walk toward my car.