The Tattoo Artist
"He wants a sleeve. She's the best in town. The session runs late. The shop closes. She offers to finish the piece after hours."
Electric Ink. Best shop in town.
I've wanted a sleeve for years. Finally saved up, finally ready. Walk in on a Tuesday afternoon for my consultation.
"You want Skye," the guy at the counter says. "She's got a cancellation right now if you want it."
"Sure."
He leads me to the back.
Skye is not what I expected.
Slim, almost skinny, covered head to toe in ink. Both sleeves done, chest piece peeking out from her vest top, throat tattoo creeping up her jaw. Shaved sides, long dark hair on top, nose ring, eyebrow bar, lip piercing.
She looks like art herself.
"Alright." She doesn't look up from her sketchbook. "Sit down. What you thinking?"
I explain the idea.
Dark forest theme, creeping up my arm. Trees, shadows, maybe some eyes watching from the dark. Something atmospheric.
She sketches while I talk, nodding, asking questions.
"Black and grey or colour?"
"Black and grey."
"Good choice." She shows me her rough concept. "Something like this?"
It's perfect. Better than I'd imagined.
"Yeah. Exactly."
"Right then." She finally meets my eyes. Hers are grey, intense. "Let's book you in."
Session One
Six hours.
She works in silence mostly, focused, precise. The needle burns but it's worth it watching the design appear.
"You're good at sitting still," she says eventually.
"Pain's not that bad."
"It will be by hour five." She smirks. "They all say that at first."
By hour five, she's right. But I don't flinch.
"Impressive." She wipes the ink, checks her work. "Most blokes tap out by now."
"I'm not most blokes."
"No." She looks at me differently. "You're not."
Session Two
We talk more this time.
She tells me about learning her craft—started at sixteen, apprenticed under some legend in London, moved back up north to open her own place.
"Why here?" I ask.
"Less competition. More appreciation." She shades a section. "London's full of wankers who want flash over substance. Here, people want art."
"Is that what I am? Art?"
"You're becoming it." She grins. "Hold still."
Session Three
The design's taking shape.
My whole upper arm now, creeping toward my shoulder. Dark forest, twisted trees, eyes glinting in the shadows.
"One more session," she says. "Maybe two."
"Shame."
"Why's that?"
"I like coming here."
She pauses, needle hovering.
"Do you now?"
Session four runs late.
We started at six. It's nearly midnight. The shop's officially closed—just us and the buzz of her machine.
"Should probably stop," she says. "Eyes are going."
"It's fine. I can come back."
"Or—" She sets down her gun. "—I could finish the last bit now. After hours. No interruptions."
"You'd do that?"
"For you?" She stretches, and her vest rides up to show more ink across her stomach. "Yeah. I would."
She locks the front door.
Flips the sign to closed. The shop feels different now—darker, more intimate. Just the lamp over her station casting shadows.
"Right." She pats the chair. "Last section. This'll take maybe an hour."
"Then what?"
She smiles. "Then we'll see."
The final hour is intense.
She's close, leaning over me, her breath warm on my skin. The needle hurts but I barely notice. I'm watching her—the concentration on her face, the way her tongue touches her lip piercing when she focuses.
"Done." She sits back, admires her work. "Perfect."
She's right. It's beautiful.
"Skye—"
"Shh." She puts a finger to my lips. "Don't talk. Just look."
She kisses me.
Her lip ring presses cool against my mouth. Her inked hands cup my face, and I pull her into my lap.
"Been wanting to do this since session two," she admits.
"Why didn't you?"
"Professional ethics." She laughs. "Fuck those."
We fuck in her tattoo chair.
Her slim body is a canvas—I trace every line with my tongue, every design with my fingers. She's got more ink than blank skin, and I want to learn every piece.
"Here—" She guides my hand to a rose on her inner thigh. "This one's my favourite."
I kiss it. Then keep going.
"Fuck—yes—right there—"
She's loud.
Doesn't care that we're in the shop, that anyone walking past might hear. Her back arches, her inked body writhing, and she comes with my name on her lips.
When I finish inside her, she pulls me down for a kiss.
"Worth waiting for," she breathes.
"The tattoo or this?"
"Both."
We clean up.
The shop's quiet, the streets outside empty. My arm's wrapped in cling film, fresh ink throbbing.
"Aftercare instructions," she says, handing me a sheet. "The regular ones are on the paper. The special ones are—" She kisses me again. "—come back tomorrow. After close."
"For a touch-up?"
"Something like that." She smirks. "Now piss off before I keep you all night."
I go back the next night.
And the next. And the next.
The sleeve heals perfectly. The thing between us heals into something more.
"You should get another piece," she suggests one morning.
"What did you have in mind?"
She traces her finger down my unmarked arm.
"Let me show you."
A year later, I'm covered.
Both sleeves, back piece, chest starting. All her work. People ask where I get my ink, and I tell them—Electric Ink, ask for Skye.
"You're my walking portfolio," she jokes.
"And you're my artist."
"Among other things." She kisses me, then picks up her gun. "Now sit still. We're not done yet."
Best art I ever invested in.