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It was less than an hour after the studio opened that she walked through its brightly painted doors. Not being a morning person that put it sometime after one in the afternoon, probably around mid-week.
She looked young, very young, with long chestnut-brown hair, oval-shaped face, and startling almond shaped eyes that were almost amber in color. Her skin was very fair, what I could see of it, since she was dressed in a short fur coat which was either real, or a very good fake. She was very pretty, but looking as young as she did, I tried to notice in only the most abstract sense.
“The piercer doesn’t come in until five…” I said, barely looking up from the novel I was reading.
She smiled, the mischief glinting in her eyes.
“I don’t want a piercing, I want a tattoo,” she replied.
“Come back when you’re eighteen, I don’t tattoo kids,” I stated, and turned back to my Camus.
“Today is my eighteenth birthday,” she purred, “and I am getting a tattoo, my first tattoo, from you, or someone else.”
“Oh yeah?” I challenged, as I put the old paperback down after noting the page number, “Prove it.”
She opened her purse and pulled her driver’s license out of her wallet. I looked at it closely. I even dug mine out of my wallet and held them up, side by side, comparing them carefully. It looked genuine, and, sure enough, it had today’s date, but eighteen years earlier. There was no doubting it was her picture.
“Well happy birthday sugar,” I said, “Go pick something out if you want, or do you want something custom drawn?”
“I know what I am looking for,” she replied with an appraising look, “and I think you’ll have it.”
I pondered that a moment while she went back to the lobby area and began leafing through big three-ring binders full of color designs.
She leafed through the design books for a half and hour or so, brought a binder to the counter, and indicated a design near the front of the book. It was a pair of cherries on their stems with some leaves; an old school design that I had reworked, and added a light blue swirly background and white stars to give it a more modern and funky feel. It was a real color-bomb design, and was pretty big, about four inches across at the widest point, and about the same high.
“Where do you want it?” I asked, figuring it was going on her ass, shoulder, or some other girlie spot.
She reached up with her left hand and caressed the right side of her neck with her long, French manicured fingernails a moment.
“Right there…” she replied, almost distantly.
“No way,” I said firmly, “you’re way too young for work that visible.”
“I’m getting that tattooed there, by you, or someone else.”
She was right about that, there were plenty of artists in town, and someone would güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri want the money enough to do it without question. I wouldn’t be quite so quick about it, and figured that I’d make a stencil, put it on her, and then she would listen to reason and chicken out, or opt for some other spot after she sees it. So, I absently shook my head and went to pull the original line drawing from a file folder
I ran the drawing through the thermofax and cut out the tissue-thin stencil. She took off her fancy-fur coat. Beneath she was wearing some sort of designer jeans, I don’t care enough to keep up with brand names, but they were looked pretty expensive. She was also wearing a black cashmere sweater with a rolled neck.
“You’re going to need to lose the sweater,” I mentioned.
She merely nodded, and pulled it over her head, her dark hair cascading down around her face as it came off. Beneath she was wearing a creamy-white, silk sleeveless shirt. It barely contained her very full breasts. She was slender without being skinny, and had a beautiful figure. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples poked at the shimmering fabric. I swallowed heard, and tried to stay all business.
I gently misted the side of her neck with Dettol solution, and let it partially dry a moment before I carefully pressed the line drawing stencil to her skin and smoothed it, making sure it all caught the dampness from the solution. A moment later I peeled it away, and beneath was the design, in purple lines, on the surface of her skin. It really filled the space on one side of her neck, starting just beneath her jaw and ending an inch or so above her collarbone. Even when she was facing straight at me it was easily visible. I directed her to look in the mirror with a nod.
“Perfect” she said, after appraising herself for a moment, “let’s do this.”
“Look,” I said patiently, trying to reason with her, “that’s a hell of a thing to get done for a first tattoo, especially at your age. I’m not going to do it.”
“Then I’ll just go to someone who will,” she declared in a matter of fact tone, and began to gather up her coat and sweater.
The thing is she could, most studios in town would be happy to take her money and ink her up. Most, however, would not do as good a job as I would. I figured that if she is going to get that inked in, it might as well look as good as it can. Besides, I had not yet given up on the idea of talking her out of it.
“Just get in the chair,” I stated simply, directing her to the old barber chair where customers sit when they are being tattooed.
She sat, and waited quietly, watching me as I prepared my workspace for the tattoo. I deliberately took some extra time to set up, and tried to make it all seem very dangerous and painful. güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri I snapped the rubber gloves on my wrist like a crazed doctor, and turned the power up on the machine as I tuned it, making it rattle and buzz like an angry hornets’ nest.
But she simply sat in the chair, waiting, her eyes now partially closed. She seemed completely unperturbed.
There was really no more stalling that I could do. I brought my stool over next to her, and leaned her head over to the side; exposing the design, and stretching her skin. I dipped the needle in ink, and brought the machine to her neck and paused a moment, the tube and needles hovering a fraction of an inch above her skin.
I studied the purple lines, now only on the surface of her skin just beneath the quickly stabbing needles. It was a moment on the brink. A washcloth and some rough scrubbing, and she could walk out of here the same rich brat she was when she walked through the door. Or, within the next second, the buzzing machine would do its work, and drive the glistening black ink forever into her skin.
Unbidden by me, I became aroused with the strange power to transform I held in my hands. The idea of being the one to mark her bratty, rich skin was suddenly very appealing. I began to feel slightly light-headed with the very idea. Her perky little chin was turned up, and I could see her pulse in the hollow of the neck, right beneath the cherries I was about to tattoo there. Her life was about to change, and as young as she was, she probably did not even understand it. Arousal became full on excitement.
I stopped the machine, bit my lip, took a deep breath and tried to compose myself, tried to become professional again, “Are you sure?”
She only gave the slightest of nods, and looked as if she was lightly dozing. I was certainly more emotionally involved in this than she was. Her lips were slightly parted, and I could just barely see her white teeth, and as I leaned closer to work, I felt her breath on my face, and fought the urge to kiss her.
I triggered the foot pedal, and brought the needle and tube to her skin, struggling to keep my hands from shaking. Starting from the bottom of one of the cherries I put the first line in her. My cock strained at my jeans shorts, wishing that it, not merely my tattoo needle, was plunging into her. She, however, didn’t even flinch.
“How was that?” I asked after putting in the first line, my voice a bit raspy.
“It feels…interesting,” she said with a slight shrug, her eyes remained closed.
It only took me about ten minutes to line it in, and a few more to nicely shape and weight the lines. But it felt much longer. Each time the needle carved a fresh black line into her once unmarked skin, it was like a raw sexual güvenilir bahis şirketleri thrust towards a climax that could not arrive. I struggled with the feeling and the tension as I worked, sweat beading on my forehead as an ache grew in my loins which screamed for some sort of release.
I tried to make some small-talk to shift some mental gears; to get my mind off the feeling as I misted her neck with soap and washed away the ink.
“So, what do you do?”
“I’m in school,” she responded.
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“St. Thomas High,” she replied.
Jesus H. Christ, I thought, as the unwanted image of her in white button down shirt, plaid skirt, and knee socks flashed through my mind. That image clashed deliciously with the bold outline of the cherries already in her skin. The aching need, which I thought I was beginning to control, suddenly became even more acute.
I dabbed at my forehead with a paper towel and took up the shading machine.
“I cut class to come here today,” she added, to drive the point home.
The feeling went on unabated as I shaded and colored the design with my vibrant inks. The needful pulsing in my loins became a dull, throbbing ache as I slammed color after color into her throat. Red, green, yellow, and a touch of white and pink brought the design to vibrant life.
Finally, with a light blue, I added the swirling background filled with subtle, negative space stars, claiming more and more of her white skin with each broad sweep of my hand. Free-handing now, I molded the background to fit the contours of her neck. And, perhaps I extended larger than the original drawing as I feathered it out, but she offered no complaint, and merely reclined in the chair as I finished the tattoo.
It was finished, and I gently misted the skin with a soap solution to clean away the excess ink and blood. It was beautiful, vibrant and alive in her perfect skin, but also dangerously large. A turtleneck would not even come close to covering it. I misted it again, and wiped, marveling at how it stayed despite soap and water. It felt like something I owned, the tattoo, and I did not want to see it leave my shop.
But, all things must end.
“It is finished,” I said, and stood up. My back was aching a bit from being bent over while working. My balls, however, actually seemed painfully tender.
She stood as well, and studied herself in the mirror, turning various ways and trying various poses to see how the tattoo looked. She smiled, and then turned and gave me a long look.
“You should go take care of yourself now,” she said with a smirk, casting a glance down at my lap.
I didn’t give her the pleasure at looking down and thereby acknowledging what she said and what she meant.
She paid for the tattoo, and also handed me a twenty dollar bill. Tipping is not all that unusual when it comes to tattooing. The fact that it was scented with her perfume, and had Tiffany 555-9012 printed on it was.
I exchanged the twenty for a shot of tequila at the bar across the street.
“Keep the change,” I told the bartender.
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