by River Day
"You sure you don't want that to say 'fuck' instead, little girl?" asked the tattoo artist.
I hated that he called me that. I was nineteen, damn it!
"No," I said as I slipped out of my skirt. "Just... Just follow the instructions."
He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands and snorted. He then motioned with his chin to the table behind me.
The man was old. I mean, like, late sixties old. It kind of creeped me out. He was fit, though. He had graying hair and a thick white beard with streaks of black that reminded me of my grandpa. That made me uncomfortable.
I'd kept on my top and my panties--didn't want to take anything off unless it was absolutely necessary.
Turning, I considered the table and made a face.
"I was expecting some sort of chair... not
that
."
The man shrugged. "I had a comfortable recliner, but it broke. Should get a new one in a few days. In the meantime, I had to improvise."
Great. Just great.
I walked over to the table and lay on my stomach. Shivers went through my body as my skin touched the cold metallic surface.
He couldn't have seen my grimace as he stood behind me, but he must have guessed.
"Don't worry, your body will warm up to it after a few minutes. You'll be fine."
I just nodded, then cringed when I felt his fingers touching my leg.
"Alright," he said. "I guess I'll get started."
After pushing my long auburn hair aside, I set my purse down on the table, just under my head, and rested my hands down, waiting.
A friend had sent me here. Swore this was the best guy in the business. If I'm honest, I'd have run out if it hadn't been for my friend's recommendation. This place kinda freaked me out.
The room was small, dark, stank of mold, and didn't look particularly clean. The owner was a disgusting and grumpy old fart--possibly a perv.
I heard the tattoo artist walking about, moving objects around. There were clinging and shuffling sounds. I didn't look back, clenching my fists as I waited patiently.
Finally, the sounds stopped and I felt the man's presence nearby.
"You have a rape kink?" he asked.
My whole body tensed and my face went very red.
Fuck.
How was I supposed to answer that? I couldn't just admit it, could I?
"No," I lied. "I lost a stupid bet, and now I have to get that tattoo."
He snorted as he pulled a stool toward the table and sat down. I felt his large, warm hand rest on my right ass cheek.
"You realize," he said, "you won't be able to remove this once I'm done? All your boyfriends will see it."
That was the fucking point.
"I lost the bet," I replied meekly.
He sighed. "Fine. I just hope you know what you're doing, little girl."
Get on with it already, for fuck's sake.
What was wrong with this guy?
Best tattoo artist in town, my ass!
The pain started just as that thought crossed my mind.
I bit down on my lip and buried my head in my hands.
***
It took three hours!
Three fucking hours for three fucking words.
I suspected the guy was dragging things on purpose.
Just to make me squirm.
To punish me, maybe, for being such a little slut.
I'm sure that's what he thought of me.
After all, who else would want to have "Rape My Ass" tattooed just above their butt?
But I'd made up my mind. I was seeing this through, no matter what.
It'd be worth it.
It turned me on just thinking of how guys would react when they saw that thing on my back.
An added perk was that no one could blame my would-be rapist if, for some reason, they got caught. It made me ripe for the taking.
When the needle finally stopped piercing my skin, I relaxed.
The man stood, and I looked over my shoulder at him.
"Is it done?"
He was staring at his work. He blinked and shook his head.
"No," he said. "Not quite yet."
I frowned. "What? I thought--"
"Almost. Just need some finishing touches."
"Well, get on with it, then. I don't have all day."
He grunted. "Stay here. I need to get a different tool from the back."
"Fine. But hurry, please."
He nodded, turned, and left.
Why the guy didn't have all the tools he needed right here was beyond me.
With an annoyed sigh, I opened my purse and brought out my phone. I started swiping through my messages. There was one from my friend--the one who had recommended this place. I was upset with the whole situation, so I started writing him a nasty note.
I heard the man's footsteps coming back into the room. Maybe he'd get this done already.
"Got what you needed?" I asked without looking back as I continued to write my text.
The guy grunted.
I felt the table shake a little, then both his hands pressed against my buttocks and squeezed them.
Startled, I looked back and gaped.
The tattoo artist had climbed onto the table and was straddling me, with his knees on each side of my legs. He was buck naked, his large and hard cock throbbing menacingly.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I asked in alarm as I tried to jump off the table.
But I didn't go far. His hands grabbed my waist and pinned me down.
