Tattoo Ch 01

I never cease to be amazed at the exploits of my beautiful wife, Andrea. By day, she's a rising star in a major east coast investment firm; by night, the mother of two thriving children; always a loving and fascinating companion to me; and somehow, in all this, she finds the time, energy, creativity, and confidence to boldly experiment with life, as if she's trying to wring from it every possible sensation that it holds. I know I'm not worthy, and every day I thank the fates that brought her to me. Sometimes she makes me nervous, though.

One of her most recent experiments just about put me over the edge. We watched a porno movie on video one weekend. (She insisted on seeing one, just because she had never seen one before.) One of the female "stars" had a small tattoo just beside her neatly trimmed pussy. Andrea noticed it and commented: "What a great place for a tattoo!"

I didn't think much about it, until I got home from work on Tuesday. Andrea's car was in the driveway, which was unusual, since she generally works later than I do. She was in the kitchen feeding the kids. She'd already sent our babysitter, Katy, home, and she seemed to be excited and happy about something.

I gave her a kiss. "What are you doing home so early? The markets shut down for the afternoon?"

"No," she laughed, "but I did. I had something I had to do, so I just cancelled out of all my afternoon meetings and played hooky. Shocking, huh?"

"Well, it's the first time I can think of. So, good for you. What was it that you just had to do?"

She grinned mysteriously and said, "I'll show you later."

Later, I was in my study, working on a feature story for one of the large weekly sports magazines, when Andrea burst in. She was wearing a short terry cloth robe and a big grin. "You want to see what I did today?" she teased.

"Sure."

"Okay, but you've got to keep an open mind. Right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Maybe it'll never be as open as yours, but I'll try."

"Okay. That's all I ask."

Then she pulled apart the tie to her robe and let it fall open in front. She took a step toward me putting her pussy about three feet from my face. "See what I got today." She pointed to a small brown image of a licking tongue, the one made famous by the Sticky Fingers album of the Rolling Stones. It was at the lower edge of her mons pubis between her groin and a newly trimmed bush, neatly placed to suggest it was about to lap at her juicy love box.

My mouth must have dropped open. Andrea laughed. "Isn't it cool. I just love it. This isn't the permanent one, though. He just did this in henna, for us to get the idea, you know, try it out. The real one will be in color, which I think will be even more spectacular. Well, what do you think?"

"I ... it's remarkable," I choked. "Where did you get it?"

"Down at the beach, near the old amusement park. I remembered seeing a sign for tattoos on a little shop down there and I just drove over and walked in."

"You just picked a place you'd never heard of, walked in and let some guy draw on your naked pussy." I was trying to keep an open mind, but I had some serious reservations about her judgement.

"Oh, come on, David. The guy was a professional. He showed me a whole book of photos of his work, and it was all very professionally done. He just concentrated on his work, and not once did he make any kind of rude remark, or touch me in the wrong way." She was a little angry at my reaction. Her frown glared down on me, while the laughing lips and tongue seemed to mock me.

"Alright. He was a professional. I suppose he gave you a professional shave, as well?"

"Yes, he did. And I think he did a very nice job, too. Don't you?"

"Well ... yes," I finally agreed. "It's beautiful." And I meant it. Her pubic hair was shaped into a neat little triangle that pointed to her clitoris and disappeared. Below that, the area around her labia was smooth and clean. I was getting aroused just contemplating it. That obscene tongue was suggesting exactly what I wanted to do.

A big smile blossomed on her face. "You mean it? You like it?"

I reached out and grabbed her butt, drawing her closer. "Mmm ... yes. I love it." Then I buried my face in her newly decorated crotch and examined it up close and personal. Fortunately, there is a couch in my study, so we didn't have to make love on my cluttered desk.

The next day, Andrea called her tattoo artist and made an appointment for the real ink and needles to be applied. It was for the next Saturday afternoon, and she very sweetly asked me to come along. I felt a little funny about it, but I couldn't refuse.

The tattoo parlor was across the street from the beach, one of about half a dozen shops still hanging on from the old honky-tonk days. The amusement park was torn down years ago to make way for some big ugly condos. A block or two of biker bars, T-shirt emporiums, and newsstands was all that was left for redevelopment. Looking up at the faceless condo buildings, I hoped these last remnants could hold out. They were dirty and disreputable, but they had a spark of life, and that was more than you could say for the condos.

The sign said "Tattoos and Piercing". It hung over a rickety screen door that opened right onto the sidewalk. Andrea and I walked in and found ourselves in the midst of a small gang of bikers.

A couple of them were actually wearing their colors, but they all wore dirty denim and stained T-shirts. Not surprisingly, many of them showed the handiwork of the shop - earrings and nose studs and arms with fantastic blue and red drawings. A couple of their women wore similar adornment.

Andrea and I were as out of place as pigs in a parlor. Andrea wore a neat linen skirt and a cotton pullover under a light spring jacket. I was in jeans, at least, but with a cotton polo shirt and topsiders I was acutely aware of what a Yuppie scumbag I must appear to this bunch.

I'm sure Andrea was just as aware of the cultural gap, but it didn't seem to faze her in the least. She deals with a broad range of people in her job - Japanese businessmen (by our standards, a very sexist lot), Middle East investors (likewise), Europeans, Latin Americans, and good old everyday Mom and Pop Americans. She knows how to deal with all of them, and she never has a problem. Maybe she doesn't get much call to deal with bikers in her job, but the confidence is there just the same.

They all looked up when we walked in. They seemed surprised to see us. Andrea calmly walked over to the couch and sat down beside one of the bikers in the only open sitting space left in the little waiting room. There was a little room on the couch beside her and she motioned me over.

"Well," she said to the room in general, "quite a day for tattoos, huh? You all here to see Hank?"

One of the older bikers - one of the ones wearing gang colors - seemed to speak for them all. "Nah. We're just here with Lisa, while her kid gets pierced. They're in with Hank now. I guess we're just what you might call moral support." He grinned and a couple of the other guys snickered.

"Well that was nice of you," Andrea replied. "Was the kid nervous about it?"

"Shit no. He was psyched. First in his class in elementary school. Davy's a hot shit. Bet he doesn't even cry when he get's stuck, and he's only nine years old."

"Jeez, I wouldn't bet on that, Gary," another one said. "When Hank did mine it hurt like a bastard."

"Yeah, but you're a wimp," Gary shot back, grinning. "Davy's a man."

The other looked over at Andrea, not too happy to have his manhood questioned in front of this outsider, and a beautiful woman outsider at that. But he wasn't ready to challenge Gary on it. He kept quiet.

"Well if it hurts, it hurts," Andrea interjected. "Doesn't matter if you're a man, woman or child. I know I'm not ready to get pierced. I'm nervous enough about my tattoo."

"Oh, you getting a tattoo?" one of the biker women asked, surprised.

"Yep. That's what I'm here for."

"Don't worry about it, honey. It stings a bit for a minute or two, but you get used to it. And Hank's good. Fact, he's one of the best."

A young boy came down the short hallway from the back, followed by a tough looking woman in her late thirties and a grizzled old man in jeans and a T-shirt - Davy, Lisa and Hank I assumed. The kid held a hand over his ear. His face was knotted in serious concentration, but it looked like Gary was right - no tear streaks on his cheeks.

"What do you mean 'one of the best'," Hank challenged with a mock frown. "You know a better artist, you oughta use him."

"Sorry, Hank," the woman grinned. "It was just an expression. You're the best."

"Damn right." He turned to Andrea. "You can go in now, Mrs. Banks."

"Hank, this is my husband Larry." She looked over at Gary and winked. "He's my moral support. Alright if he comes in with me?"

"Sure, sure." He turned to Davy's mother. "Lisa, I want to put another dressing on that when it stops bleeding. Could you bring him back in an hour or so?"

"If you think so, Hank. Yeah, we'll be here."

Then Hank ushered us back into his little operating room. A high table covered with a plastic coated pad stood in the center of the room, a wooden stool beside it. In one corner, there was an odd shaped chair, and the workbench along the wall was strewn with an interesting array of needles and inks and other tools of the trade. Hank pulled out the odd chair and offered it to me. Other than his stool, that was the only seating in the room. It turned out to be a chair specially designed for people getting tattoos on their backs. You leaned your chest over the "back" of the chair, giving Hank a comfortable position to draw with his needles. I decided to stand.

"Alright, Mrs. Banks, I want you to strip from the waist down," he said abruptly.

Andrea looked only the least bit startled, but quickly complied. She popped a snap at the side of her skirt and it fell into a single length of cloth in her hand. She tossed it aside. Then her fingers grasped her white lace panties at either hip and slid them smoothly down over her legs. The thin cotton top was all she had on, and it barely reached her navel. Her sweet pussy and ass were prominently displayed.

But Hank wasn't satisfied. He had her get up on the padded table and lie on her back. Then he positioned her legs to give him access to the tender location she wanted for her tattoo. He placed her left foot on the table and cocked her leg. Her right foot went on a peg on the side of the table. That opened her pussy to him in a way that was completely provocative and yet perfectly practical to the task at hand. It felt like some kind of erotic dream, but strangely uncharged and matter-of-fact.

"You liked the placement and size of the image?" he asked brusquely, when Andrea was settled.

We both said yes, and he went to work.

First he shaved her, going carefully over the area he had carved out four days earlier, including the tender regions of her crotch alongside her red and puffy pussy lips. I couldn't see that any hair had grown back down there, but I could see why he would want to lather her up and scrape her down. I vowed to be the one to shave her pussy forever after this, but watched eagerly as Hank, the artist, applied his seasoned skill to the preparation of his canvas - so to speak.

Andrea tensed momentarily when he smoothed the shaving cream along her crotch. She looked over at me and smiled, then closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensations of Hank's hands. He shaved her quickly and surely with a regular disposable razor, then wiped off the excess cream with a warm wet towel. Her face seemed to relax with the warm caress of the towel as Hank gently rubbed it directly over her pussy lips.

When he went to work with his needles, her expression tensed with the sting. Every few minutes, he would swab away the excess ink with an alcohol preparation that seemed to soothe her tender skin. Hank would then stand back and survey his progress.

I watched him carefully, and soon realized that Andrea was right. He was completely professional. His hands never wandered from their task. With Andrea's beautiful prize laid out before him, he concentrated only on adding something of beauty to it.

It took a little more than half an hour. Then Hank stepped back and said he was done. He motioned me over to check his work. It was perfect. That lapping cartoon tongue was even more lewd and suggestive in bright red. The skin around it was a little inflamed, but I could imagine it against the pure white of Andrea's pubis and knew it would be even more spectacular.

"Beautiful," I breathed.

Andrea stood up and examined her new artwork in a mirror next to Hank's workbench. "Oh, Hank, thank you. I love it," she exclaimed.

"You're welcome," he said stiffly.

I paid him, while Andrea got dressed.

"It's liable to be a little sensitive for a day or so," Hank warned her, and I noticed that Andrea took it as a suggestion to do without her panties. Instead of putting them on, she dropped them into her purse. Hank handed her a small bottle of something. "Don't shower for a couple days, and wipe down the area with this each morning and night. You can take a sponge bath everywhere else. By Tuesday, any irritation or minor infection should be gone, and you can wash the tattoo like any other part of your body."

Andrea took the bottle and shook Hank's hand. "You did a beautiful job, Hank. I want to thank you."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Banks. It was good to work with a picture so simple. I tried to make the most faithful copy I could, but still take advantage of the contours and textures. I hope you enjoy it."

Andrea beamed. "I know I will. I'm so proud of it already."

We went out through the waiting room, and the bikers were still there. One of them had brought in a six-pack, which turned out to be one for each of them, except for Davy. I was pleased to see that Davy's can was Coke.

"Hey, Mrs. Banks," Gary greeted her, "how'd it go?"

"No sweat. I was a man like Davy. I didn't even cry."

"Well, you hot shit," he grinned, then added innocently, "What'd you get? Can we see it?"

This was where Andrea took it to another plane, I thought. She got a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smirk, then laughed apologetically. "It's in a kind of private place ... but, I've got to show someone ... and you guys are all used to these kind of things, so I think you should step over here into the light and see it." She moved over to the couch again, where a bright patch of sunlight illuminated one end. She smirked at me, then sat down in that little patch of sunshine and hiked her skirt up over her pussy, giving them a clean, well-lit view of her tattoo, and her clean, well-trimmed, well-shaven pussy.

The bikers crowded around her. "Jesus," one of them breathed.

Lisa was the first to comment. She looked Andrea in the eye. "I don't know about you, but I think that's beautiful. I wish I'd thought of that, myself." She thought about it a minute, then seemed to laugh at herself. "'Course, it wouldn't look as convincing on me as it does on you. You got to have the first class goods for that, ... and you got 'em."

"Yeah," one of the biker's agreed eagerly.

Andrea flushed happily at all this attention. "Thank you," she murmured. Finally, she pulled her skirt down, and I could breathe again.

Before we left, Gary mentioned some kind of a body art show. He thought Andrea and I might like to see some of the wilder varieties. "Heck," he said politely, "yours is pretty nice. Maybe you'd even want to get in the show."

"Oh I don't know if I could do that," Andrea laughed.

"Hey, just stop down to the show. If you just want to watch, that's cool. If you want to be part of it, you just tell the guy that's running it. You don't have to sign up before, or anything."

I was distressed that Andrea showed a lot of interest in this show. It seemed like such a strange and threatening thing to me, and that probably just made it more exciting to her. So of course when we got back to the car, we were going. I made my feeble protest and subsided into grumbling bad spirits.

The next evening, we were decked out in our own pathetic imitation of the biker uniform. The only problem was that our jeans were clean, and we ended up wearing old sneakers in place of their heavy black boots -- that and the simple fact that we were clearly Yuppies playing dress up. I tried to convince Andrea this wasn't a good idea.

"It might really piss them off," I said. "Bullshit," she commented succinctly. "Those guys we met at the tattoo parlor were friendly and they wanted us to come."

"Maybe," I grumbled. "But there's going to be a lot of them, and they probably do a lot of drinking at these things. They're bound to get pretty rowdy."

"I hope so," she said, pulling me out the door.