I struggled long and hard with what to bring you for my last post today, queer history, more posts on queer porn, some ideas about queer culture…? After a lot of thought, I realized that if you’re curious about those things, you can always do the Googles and this site right here; Fleshbot.com is an awesome fount of everything queer and sexy so look around here for more of what you want. From me however, what you’re going to get is a little queer story. A fantasy of mine, if you will. And I’ll tell you a little secret that this here story has been modified into script form and is in the works with a very awesome up-and-coming queer porn company. So stay tuned, if you like what you read, you just may be able to fap to it on your computer screen one day soon. Until then, fap to it in your minds, under your work desks, and at home later when you re-read it. Obviously. XXO
She walks into the shop, noticing that it is completely quiet and no one seems to be around. It is also oppressively hot, the Summer day outside fills the small front room with thick air that smells of asphalt and what she imagines is ink. With no one there, she politely sits on the adjacent couch, folding her hands into her lap, thinking that because she is early, she must only need to wait until her time and someone will appear.
Minutes tick by and a bead of sweat gathers at the edge of her hairline. She begins to get irritated and calls out, “Hello?”. No answer and she thinks maybe they forgot about her. She starts to wander around, her heart sinking in the heat. She was so looking forward to this tattoo. She has been needing some ink. Needing some pain.
She is climbing the stairs when she finds the person in one of the tattoo rooms, wiping sweat from her brow and moving ink pots and cleaning supplies around. “Excuse me? I’m Erin. I had a two o’clock.”
“Shit, they didn’t call you? We can’t do anything today. No AC, too hot.”
“Fuck. No. They didn’t call me. And I’ve been waiting months for this. “
“Well, sorry, I don’t know what to tell you. There is nothing I can do. Call tomorrow, they’ll reschedule.”
Erin slams her palm down on the nearest surface. The tattoo artist looks up from her bottles and her increasingly disassembled tattoo gun. She gives Erin a new top-to-bottom once over, her eyes dead and without compassion. Erin feels her breathing get labored. The air in the room is so dense, she swears she can feel it filling up her lungs, suffocating her like a blanket from the inside out. Feeling pissed that she is being starred at, waiting for those empty eyes to emit any form of emotion, she wonders if she should apologize or leave or stand her ground. The heat has made her unsure of everything and normally powerful, she feels weak and wavering.
Suddenly and in an instant, the tattooer’s hand is around Erin’s wrist, their faces close, Erin genuinely startled at the quick movement.
“Please”, she croaks out, “I. Need. This.”
Without a word she is shoved into the chair, legs spread, all akimbo. The tattoo artist picks up the gun and holds it to her face. “I can’t tattoo you today, you understand?”, she growls as the tattoo gun comes buzzing to life. Erin shakes her head, confused and the artist says again, “Do. You. Understand?” Slowly, Erin begins to comprehend what is being said, the meaning behind the words, the fact that something is going to happen, it’s just not supposed to and she closes her eyes. Putting her head back and smiling a slow smile, she feels a tiny bit of her power start to come dripping back, something is going to happen, at least one rule will be broken. The artist finds the spot, that perfect spot on Erin’s inner thigh, just below her cutoffs; smooth and vulnerable, glistening with a veil of sweat, and she begins to press the inkless needle into Erin’s flesh.
Erin’s face contorts into a grimace and the artist can see it obviously hurts but there is no sound except for the gun. The look on the artist’s face is stern, attempting to cause pain, loving what is happening, the sweat from her brow dripping onto Erin’s thigh, mixing with the blood that beads up from the growing line on her skin. They go on like this for a long minutes until Erin, giddy with endorphins and the knowledge that she coerced a totally stranger into doing what she wanted, slowly start to move her hand down into her shorts. This pisses the artist off and distracted, she angrily swats Erin’s hand away. The artist hates feeling that they are losing control and not getting Erin’s full attention is irritating. She starts to understand that she has been had and increasingly, just causing pain in not enough. Back and forth, touching and slapping of hands, they dance a few times until the artist turns the gun off and shoves Erin to the floor. Erin lies there, smiling as the artist stands over her, looking like she wants to kick her. She bends down, finding the spot they have been tattooing and wipes some of the blood with their fingers, smearing it on Erin’s mouth, then slowly, taking off Erin’s pants, begin to finger fuck her hard and slow on the floor. The artist has nimble fingers and Erin in instantly moaning, wanting to writhe but still excruciatingly aware of her bloodied thigh now dripping, attempting to be careful where she puts her body whilst being fucked across the studio floor. Everything feels amazing, from pain to pleasure to, seven different kinds of wetness from her pussy to her mouth to her face which is dripping in sweat from the heat that won’t abate and is getting hotter with each breath. The artist makes no sound, says nothing and the room is only filled with the Erin’s animal sounds and the occasional muffling of her groans by the artist hand across her face. It doesn’t take long her Erin to come, far less time than usual as she was near to some form or explosion even as she sat in the chair, inches away from the artist’s face. Her squirt runs down her leg, passing the fresh, inkless tattoo lines and making her cover her mouth with both dirty hands to keep from screaming at the sting.
The artist sits up, satisfied at last. Looking at Erin’s face, a smattering of eye makeup, dirty smears and a small smile, she can’t help but smile herself, looking away to make sure Erin has no way to see. She moves down to help Erin up and hands her a paper towel. “Don’t say anything. You know, when you call tomorrow to reschedule.” She moves to begin disassembling the gun and laying it down in pieces before she leaves, her back to Erin, the appointment obviously over; “I’m not your tattooer anyway.”
[This post is a part of Fleshbot's Dylan Ryan Week.]