Tattoo Parlor Touch

Walk-ins at Skull & Ink were usually regretted by morning. Drunk decisions, impulse quotes, names of lovers who'd be exes by next week. But I walked in sober at three PM on a Tuesday, and my only regret was not coming sooner.

She was behind the counter, covered in art from collar to wrist, purple hair shaved on one side, septum ring catching the light. Curvy in a way her black vest top showed off beautifully.

"Help you?" Her accent was northern, voice gravelly.

"Want a tattoo."

"We do those." She didn't smile, but her eyes were amused. "Know what you want?"

"Something on my ribs. Text, maybe. Still deciding the words."

"Ribs hurt. You sure?"

"I can take it."

She looked me up and down, assessing. "Yeah. You look like you can." She gestured to a folder. "Pick a font. I'll book you in."

"When's available?"

"Now, if you want." She shrugged. "Tuesday's dead. Might as well keep busy."

I picked a font—simple, clean. She led me to her station in the back.

"I'm Raven. This your first?"

"Third. But first one in a while."

"Alright. Shirt off, lie down, try not to squirm."

The needle was a familiar pain—sharp but manageable. Raven worked in silence at first, focused, her hands steady and warm on my skin.

"What's the text?" she asked eventually.

"'No rain, no flowers.' Cheesy, I know."

"Nah. It's real." She wiped away excess ink. "Everyone wants deep quotes, but real ones are better. Where'd you hear it?"

"My mum. Before she died."

The needle paused. "Sorry."

"It's alright. Long time ago now."

She resumed, her touch somehow gentler. "Makes the ink mean more then. I respect that."

We talked as she worked—about her journey into tattooing (art school dropout, apprenticeship, finally her own chair), about my life (office job, boring but pays well, coming out of a long relationship). By the time she was finishing up, two hours had passed like nothing.

"Nearly done." She sat back, examined her work. "Want to see?"

She held up a mirror. The text curved along my ribs, elegant, exactly what I'd imagined.

"It's perfect."

"I know." She finally smiled—just a twitch, but there. "Let me wrap it."

Her hands were careful with the bandage, but she was close now, close enough that I could smell her—ink and something floral, unexpected.

"You know," she said quietly, "aftercare's important. I could... show you. If you want."

"Show me what?"

"How to take care of it. Properly." Her eyes met mine. "My flat's upstairs."

"That's convenient."

"I'm a practical woman."

Her flat was exactly what I expected—dark walls, more art than furniture, the smell of incense. She led me to the bedroom without pretense.

"Ground rules. This stays between us. You tell anyone I shagged a client, I'm fucked."

"Understood."

"Good." She pushed me onto the bed. "Now let me show you how careful I can be."

She straddled me, careful to avoid my fresh ink, and kissed me deeply. Her tongue piercing clicked against my teeth.

"Been wanting to do this since you walked in," she admitted. "Something about you. Can't explain it."

"Same here."

She pulled off her vest, revealing a bra covered in more tattoos—no, wait, that was her skin, ink covering everything. A full chest piece of flowers and skulls.

"Like it?"

"Love it."

"Did most of it myself." She unhooked her bra. "Not these though."

Her tits were perfect, nipples pierced with simple silver bars. I took one in my mouth, tugged gently with my teeth.

"Fuck—yes—"

She ground down against me while I played with her piercings. Her moans were low, guttural, nothing like her speaking voice.

"Need more." She climbed off, stripped off her jeans. More ink, all the way down her legs. "Your turn."

I stripped while she watched, her eyes lingering on the fresh tattoo, on everything else.

"Nice." She produced a condom from the nightstand. "I'm prepared."

"I noticed."

She rolled it on herself, then climbed back on. Sank down slowly, carefully.

"Tell me if it pulls," she said. "The ink."

"Don't care."

"You should." But she was moving now, rolling her hips. "Aftercare's important."

She rode me on her dark sheets, all ink and curves and guttural moans. Her hands braced on my chest, avoiding the bandage, her whole body a work of art in motion.

"Harder—can take it—"

I grabbed her hips, thrust up. The tattoo pulled slightly—I didn't care. She was too good, too tight, too everything.

"Close—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed while she rode. She came with a groan, her nails digging into my chest.

"Inside—come on—"

I came hard, pulling her down, feeling her shake through it.

We lay there after, tangled in dark sheets.

"So," she said, "six-week touchup. Want to book now?"

"Book me in."

"Same terms?"

"Always."

I became her most loyal client. The tattoo healed beautifully.

So did everything else.