She was stretched out on the table in the tattoo parlour, holding my hand. The red of her nails matched the red on a cartoon of a Chinese dragon on the wall. In the background you could hear the door to the street opening and closing, the receptionist chatting away with customers and tyre-kickers alike. On the stereo Biffy Clyro were doing their best or worst, depending upon your taste.The disposable paper sheet underneath her rustled and moved as she prepared herself. She'd taken off her skirt, not that it concealed much, had removed her top to reveal a lacy black bra, and was undoing the tie side of her panties. The tattoo she'd chosen would reach from her ribs on her right hand side all the way down to her, the branches and blossoms of the rose tree design reaching across to her navel and curving round her hip. She'd chosen the design, had drawn it out, reminding me of her artistic skill, the roses further from her pelvis a darker red, almost black at the edge, a deep contrast to the lipstick red above her groin.
That was the design, blue tacked to the wall on cartridge paper and transferred onto multiple sheets of tracing paper that were taped together to make the stencil. Today was about doing the lining, the establishing of the shape of the tatt. There'd be more appointments to colour it in, to complete her vision.She wanted to look away as the artist fitted the needle to the gun, tying it down to the frame with rubber bands, adjusting it by eye. I made her look at it, made her notice the sterile wrappers in a kidney dish on the shelf behind him, the neat thimbles of colour, dark black with a blue hue to the surface, secured to the shelf next to him with vaseline. She'd contemplated this day for so long, and I wanted her to take in every detail.
I listened to the sharp intake of breath as she let the artist position the stencil. She knew him, had talked to him for months as she planned the piece of work, explained her desire, to take the idea of black and red roses and marry them together. I squeezed her hand and asked her to relax. to accept the feel of the transfer and the anticipation. She smiled at me, and squeezed back, and turned her head to watch the artist as he hooked the power leads to the gun and tested the pedal.
Then he began tracing out the lines, one side of the central trunk to the other. working in a long sweep down over her hip. I watched her face, and stroked the back of her hand as she bit her lower lip. Her smile was warm, and amused, and she was happy to make small talk with the artist as he worked. he was attentive, checking she was OK; the way she was lying meant he couldn't see her face, so he kept asking, kept reassuring her as he wiped away the excess ink or the smears of blood.
He didn't need to ask. By the time he'd completed the tendrils and blossoms that arced around her back I was sure. She wasn't hurting when she bit her lip, she was turned on. Her nipples were poking against her bra like dark thimbles, hard and prominent. I couldn't help but smile and enjoy her embarrassment, even if her predicament was arousing me as well. Ninety minutes had gone by and neither of us had noticed it particularly; not until the artist decided he needed a break for a cigarette and to give her a break.
She didn't need a break - she was having the time of her life, and once we were alone in the room her left hand ferreted between her legs. She was soaked, apparently. I told her the knowledge that she was so turned on was making me hard. She insisted I show her. So I did, and her hand drifted back between her legs again. I was about to start shoe-horning my hardon back into my jeans when she put her hand on it. She was insistent. He'd said ten minutes, and we'd hear his footsteps on the wooden floor. As if I needed persuasion to put my hand on the back of her head and start fucking her mouth. She relaxed into it, the way we have a hundred times before, my hand holding her hair, sometimes rocking her head back and fore, sometimes pulling her towards me so my cock hit the back of her mouth and her lips were jammed against my jeans. The sound of her breath catching in her throat, rasping around my member as it filled her mouth was so familiar, and so good. When I rocked back to let her catch her breath the smile was warm enough to break your heart, achingly happy. Her voice was so confident.
'Come on sir, do it, fuck my mouth...' And I di. After teasing her a little of course, pulling all the way out so that only the curved end of my glans was against her lips, then pushing in hard, savouring the automatic reaction of her jaw moving, making room for me. No rituals, no special rules were needed, but her hand went between her legs to rub her clit as it did every time she sucked me.
Was I distracted? Of course. Did that explain why I didn't hear the tattooist coming back? No. Maybe it was the combination of my arousal, of the rhythm of her sucking me,; maybe it was my awareness that she was noisy when she came, and that it could be a challenge. Maybe it's because. as he later said, he always wore trainers for work to better feel the tattoo gun;s control pedal. Whatever the reason, I was buried deep in her mouth, arching her head backwards to get deeper to the point where she would start to gasp and choke, when he stepped through the sliding door.
